After the Fall: Rise of the Fallen
by ElocinMuse
Summary: AngelBuffy crossover. Set after the battle in the alley. Who's left standing? Is there such thing as destiny? I know there are thousands of these, but I promise, you will be pleased. I made this as original as physically possile. Callbacks to all seasons.
1. After the Fall

**Author's Note: **Okay, here we go! I'm sort of basing this on the new comic book "Angel: After the Fall" coming out in November (I believe). However, the only relation between my fanfic and the comicbook, is the fact that it occurs after Angel: Season 5, and Buffy: Season 7.

After all, Angel doesn't make friends with the dragon in my "tale". :P

And I know that there are probably a bajillion "aftermath" stories concering the dark avenger, but I tried to make this one just as original as possible. Worked my butt off, honest. I took many callbacks from all seasons of Angel and Buffy, to tie things together nicely.

**Characters**: This is an Angel/Buffy crossover. Expect to see anyone who lived through the season finales. I took artistic liberty with the final battle in the final ep. of Angel. I won't tell you who survived. Let it be a surprise.

**Pairings: **Again, I don't really want to give anything away, but I'll tell more in the following chapters.

**Writers Vow: **I've done oneshots in the past, but this will be my first _story_ on And, I promise it will get finished. I'm already past chapter ten on this puppy, so don't worry about the waiting for updates thing. lol

I really hope you enjoy this because I'm really proud of it and I've been working like a dog on it. I'm a professional author, and I've been taking time away from my actual writing for this, because the plot bunny would NOT leave me alone, and I decided loose ends had to be tied. And, well... gosh darnit, I want the slayer and the vampire to have a happy ending!

O.O -- oh dear. I've said too much.

Enjoy!

**Chapter I**

_Outskirts of Sunnydale_

"_What do you think we should do, Buffy?" Willow Rosenberg asked quietly, but eagerly._

"_Yeah," Faith seconded. "You're not the one and only Chosen anymore. Can live just like a person. How's that feel?" _

"_Yeah, Buffy…" Dawn began, looking to her sister. "What _are_ we gonna do now?" _

_Buffy Summers, former vampire slayer extraordinaire—now able to live in peace with whomever she chose, stared ahead, eyes glistening with hope and wonder._

_Then, staring out unto the vast crater, her heart fluttered, and a smile like the sun spread across her lips. _

_Only until after everyone else had begun their trek back to the bus did his name pass through her lips in a whispered promise._

_----------------------------------- _

Her heart felt as if it would rip itself from her chest. The world was silent, though it spun out of control around her. She remained utterly still, her jaw unhinged in a mask of heartache.

Her eyes stared at Giles unwaveringly, wide and in shock. Already, they were moist.

Within the distance, she heard his voice. She was no longer looking at him. Her gaze was set against nothing. She had to be empty; surely, her spirit had left her. For she could not comprehend a single thought. Yet there was a rushing in her ears, and she felt she would vomit.

"Buffy…" the former Watcher began; heartsick with the news he'd had to deliver to her.

Two simple rivers kissed their way down her cheeks.

_Oh, God._

She couldn't breathe. Her lungs refused to cooperate with her body's needs.

Willow stood nearby along with Xander, looking on pityingly. Willow's eyes welled for her friend before her and for the one who had perished.

She reached out to touch a hand to the slayer's shoulder in comfort, but hesitated when Buffy finally came back to earth and reality struck her.

She slowly sank to the floor, choking on a sob. She hugged herself tightly and began to weep.

Willow was about to go to her friend when Dawn knelt beside her. Without a word, she enveloped the slayer in her arms and held her.

Buffy clung to the younger girl, sobbing without restraint.

Faith looked on, unable to force back the burning behind her own brown gaze. Angel had meant the world to her, and she appreciated him for everything he had done for her, and what he'd sacrificed. But she also knew what he meant to Buffy, and the capacity of her devotion to him. More to the point: their devotion to each other.

Faith recalled when she'd fallen into her darkest hour—lost in madness and pain. Angel had been there for her. Getting through those times had stung without release.

So, she had found comfort in allies and friends, to help her through the pain. She had even found solace in Robin.

But now the first slayer's comforter was gone.

Faith couldn't begin to imagine the agony of such a thing.

Soon, the Chosen One's cries were swallowed again by the silence that followed.

--------------------------

_Los Angeles_

The air reeked of death.

Steam rose off the collection of rotting bodies that were littered throughout the alley, its mouth, and into the world around it.

The downpour had ceased, but there remained a light mist of rain as the heavens wept upon the City of Angels.

Ogres, demons, and all manner of mystical and feared creatures lay strewn. There had been a massacre, a complete bloodbath, there in the alley.

What remained was jaw-dropping.

In the stillness, rain continued to cascade gently upon the corpses. A very light fog had gathered, blanketing the area like a veil of death.

And then, a leathered boot stepped forward.

It was followed by another, attached to a pair of slender legs. Through the fog, a lithe form moved amongst the slain.

She was badly beaten, and was disgusted at the very premise. She vowed she would never get used to the fragility of the body she was inhabiting. Nevertheless, she moved among the bodies like a Queen.

Still… her body ached.

Illyria scoffed. _Such like a human._

She knew she would need to rest soon, however. But not until she found what she was looking for.

Despite her denial and effort to suppress it, she felt concern creeping into her system. She had been searching for some time now, with no positive results.

Her never-resting mind sifted through information it had obtained in the past several hours, holding out for an indication of some sort.

Suddenly, as if remembering to scratch an itch, her icy gaze donned recognition.

His voice echoed in her thoughts. _I'd kind of like to slay the dragon._

She came to a halt, her head tilting to the side in consideration. Her calculating eyes scanned the area around her.

Then she saw it, and without so much as a twitch of emotion, she made her way for it, taking no care in moving around the bodies, but rather over them like stepping stones.

Its massive bat-like wings had been rendered motionless and spread across the area around it, resting atop the solid ground, useless. Its leathery hide was covered thick with blood and injuries that no doubt meant it had come up against its match.

Illyria felt a tugging at her lips birthed from snide satisfaction.

It soon faded though, for she did not see the creature's slaughterer anywhere in sight.

She stood there for a moment, still in her thoughts.

_Surely, he cannot be dead._

For the second time that night, she felt a deep pain in her chest. This wouldn't do at all.

For each person she had finally considered worthy of existence was disappearing around her faster than even she could comprehend. She remembered mocking the lower beings for their feelings of grief. Now… all of it didn't seem so funny.

A memory hit her. His voice echoed again. _And I'm next? _

Her brow knit together as she stared into nothing. She remembered what she'd said to him. _No, vampire. You were last. _

After him, there was no one left.

No one left to her.

A sudden wave of anger gripped her, and she decided she wished very much to tear the dead beast before her apart.

She would clear this whole area out, she thought. Leave nothing left but innards and bones.

No, that wouldn't do. She mused she would feel much better if she took matters further. She would snap the bones into bits of dust. Yes, that would help. And she would stamp on the guts until there was nothing left but a sticky paste.

Her rage cooled, finally, as she remembered the things Wesley had spoken regarding her temper. For some reason, she found she wished to please him, even in his absence.

Even though he was gone.

Still… she wished very much to wipe out every corpse so one could maybe see the earth beneath it once more.

She paused in thought. Then, without so much as another, she gripped the beast near the base of its skull and began to drag it violently to the side.

Almost agonizingly slowly, though she was quick to rid the beast of its current resting place, the familiar champion was revealed.

His motionless form reflected back in her eyes, which widened slightly in wonder. She felt another tugging at the corner's of her mouth. Satisfied with her epic discovery, she held a moment of self-triumph.

For epic it certainly was.

The vampire had been literally within the beasts jaws. Or at least partly, she could tell.

But then she took in his condition. If she wasn't familiar with how the vampire species met their fate, she would've guessed there was no chance of him being alive, or surviving, for that matter.

He seemed to be wearing the color red.

There was an array of gashes where the winged predator's jaws had taken him over his ribs. His shirt was in threads; his jacket torn and barely on his shoulders. A deep wound caused most likely by a set of claws traveled down his throat and over his chest. Another intense cut had been inflicted across his brow and reached down his cheek partially, and another set of claw marks blemished the skin over the opposite cheekbone. Other than these major eyesores, he was riddled with the marks of several arrows, a broadsword or two, and bruises from a handful of straight out fist matches and bludgeons. Most of these injuries alone would have meant certain death to a mortal being.

She had never seen him look so weak. So vulnerable. Nor anyone, for that matter, who was still alive or undead.

However, an approving grin cracked her mouth.

Despite everything, his right hand still gripped the handle of his sword.

Off in the distance, screams and roars of annihilation echoed. She would need to move him away from the area. Soon.

The City of Angels was getting swallowed into hell. It wouldn't do any good if its only angel went with it.

**AN: Tada! Please review! I love to know how I'm doing! I really hope to have three or so reviews before I update, but being the pushover that I am, one should do fine. lol**


	2. Remember

**Author's Notes: **Wowzers! Thanks for the reviews, everyone. :D

I replied to each of them, and I hope to have many more in the future as I carry on with this little fic. I greatly appreciate your thoughts--and even criticism is welcomed! I like to know how I'm doing. :D

Enjoy!

**Chapter II**

_Wolfram & Hart_

It was morning now. Thick double doors slammed open with thundering timbre, jerking violently off their hinges. Illyria stepped through the threshold with a very specific objective on her mind.

The former office building was in complete ruin. Any sane person wouldn't dare to even set foot in the edifice. What was left was hardly a stable environment. Pillars trembled and the floors moaned dangerously—what was left of them, anyways.

Illyria vehemently hoped there was an able path to the solitary office she was seeking. It would make her task easier, that she knew.

She paused in a lower level lobby, taking in her surroundings. The machine that traditionally transported bodies was no doubt useless to her. Her eyes flickered to the staircase.

It was a sight indeed. Barely ascendable.

_It will do._

Illyria was about to continue on when a soft whimper perked her heightened ears. Inwardly, she was aggravated. Outwardly, she still wore her trademark mask of ice-calm.

Her head tilted to the side, curious anyways. Really, she didn't much care what sort of pathetic life form had made the sorry sound, but she decided that if it were a threat to her, she may as well just dispose of it now.

As she turned to investigate, her eyes came to rest on the small form of the former liaison, Eve. The girl looked nothing short of terrified, and tears had noticeably dried on her rosy cheeks—some new ones fresh in her eyes.

Illyria scowled. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Illyria…?" the young redhead began uncertainly.

"Brainless. Why would you remain in this mausoleum?" Not that she cared, but the foolishness of it baffled her.

"I… I'm waiting for Lindsey," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "I have no where else to go. Angel said he wasn't coming, but…" her large eyes turned desperate. "Do you know where he is?"

"If Angel's plan went accordingly, the Empath demon shot him through the heart," she notified emotionlessly. Illyria took no notice of the girl's hurt reaction. "More than once, I hope. I did not much like him."

Eve only stared incredulously, more fresh tears welling in her eyes. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head slightly. Blinking, new tears began to stream down her face. "Everyone is dead?"

"Yes."

Eve remained still near the lower level reception area. She stared into nothing, not even giving notice to the Old One's departure.

Illyria couldn't care a pinch if she lied, but it wasn't as if she had. Everyone was dead, in some form or another.

She just hoped the vampire wouldn't fall victim to the more permanent side of it.

------------------------

It stung her.

Her large cold blue eyes now held a vulnerability that was not only rare, but nearly unfathomable.

His office was unchanged, aside from being in nigh complete ruin. Her astute and advanced mind, however, could rewind time and place the broken pieces back together, much like a puzzle.

She found she didn't much benefit from this, though. For seeing the office in perfect condition placed within her false hope that maybe, at any moment, he would walk in.

Hope.

She used to laugh at the word. Now she only turned her head in sadness from it.

She let the mirage fall, and when she was greeted with the room's true face, her brow knit in uncertain sorrow. The disarray and chaos of it seemed to only seal his fate further.

She needed to leave this place, and soon.

Moving forward, she attempted to blot out the surroundings and focus on her intent. She took hold of an edge of the desk that lay in shambles, and tossed it aside with ease.

Her targets remained there, as if waiting for her to find them. Stooping down, she gathered up all the hard-covered volumes that, not just by illusion, knew everything there was to know—or at least what was written of it.

She pulled the cover off of an antique compartment box, the lock snapping easily under her strength. Within the hold, she found a few documents, and what Fred's memories told her was a VHS tape. Curious, she took the tape along with the documents.

Her mission accomplished, she hoped to depart immediately.

But something held her back.

Turning her head towards a small closet that was no bigger than a locker, she hesitated. Shifting the books over to one arm, she stepped forward and gripped the handle, pulling it open. His essence filled her every senses in a rush that nearly hindered her thoughts.

Before her, protected by the closet door, hung his coat. It was much like the one he had worn the night previous; fawn-brown suede. This one was a little longer.

She didn't remember why she took it. She only remembered that she did, and then she had left.

Perhaps it was to possess a piece of him. A memory of his existence, and what he meant to her.

No matter. She couldn't dwell on it.

She had a vampire to make healthy again.

…And thinking further of the human only made her chest sting worse.

**A/N: Read and review, please and thank you:D **


	3. Choice

**Author's Note: **I'm so glad everyone is enjoying this! Thanks to all your reviews and I replied to all those I could.

To the anons: Thanks!

**Chapter III**

_St. Michael's Chapel_

The old abandoned church had done nicely, Illyria thought to herself as she passed through the threshold, moving swiftly down the aisle. Ironic, if she dwelled further on the topic.

In her arms, she carried the mystical volumes and such, while on her shoulders: she wore the coat. She wasn't sure why she'd put it on. It was more of an experiment at first—she'd seen him do it a dozen times. More, even.

It did nothing for her physically. Yet, somehow, it brought her comfort. So, she had left it on.

It also helped divert peoples' attention away from her in the busy streets. Not that she gave the gawkers a second glance, but it allowed her to be there and gone smoothly and without delay.

Not that it would have mattered today. It was so chaotic out there to begin with—what with the city falling apart around them—the terrified humans probably would have seen her as a relief of scenery. There were far worse-looking monsters out there than her.

Appearance-wise only. She would never deny her power or insist her superiority over those simple creatures outdoors. The monsters, that is, of course.

Wesley had said she was a gaudy narcissist. She didn't disagree.

She was thinking about him again. That was never good. It distracted her from her tasks. When she could rest, she would think of him.

_Strange_, she mused. Since when did she care so much about saving a being lower than herself? She brushed the thought away, not giving much heed to it. Perhaps the former-Watcher was rubbing off on her. Not that he was much of an example to follow. Or at least, that is what he claimed.

She was still thinking about him.

Illyria forced the thoughts away, moving to the back of the church, pushing open a small door that was out of the way of everything else. Stepping through, she began to descend a small set of stairs into the building's basement, where sunlight barely had a fighting chance to enter. There were only two small windows, which had been boarded up. A few errant rays leaked through, but they meant no harm to her company.

Stepping into the small space which could have resembled an apartment loft, were it overhead, she set the books and other paraphernalia on a nearby table.

The vampire had yet to wake. She had moved him towards the room's center and placed him onto an old sofa that Spike would have joked was older than she was.

She hesitated.

_Spike…_

Closing her eyes briefly to clear her mind, she continued on. On a chair that sat beside the sofa, she'd placed what remained of her cleaning equipment and bandages. She'd removed what was left of his shirt and jacket, and had proceeded to clean his ugly wounds. She'd missed a particularly nasty laceration that was carved alongside his back, no doubt the result of a broadsword attack. That was when she had seen the tattoo. She'd smiled, then.

Not only was this creature the mighty champion vampire, Angel…

He was also Angelus. Bringer of destruction and torment. Or at least, he had been. Illyria had always been suspicious towards the possibility, but she had never known for sure. She supposed she could have simply asked Wesley.

She remembered feasting her eyes on an old prophetic symbol of the tattoo in an ancient scroll the Old One's kept in their midst. It was remarkable, that one being could be two different people. Inside, there was both light and darkness.

It all settled on a choice one made.

She supposed that was what Wesley had been trying to teach her. She had been no better than Angelus—worse, even. Well… if Angelus had ruled the world, she supposed it could be a closer match.

But seeing the contrast between the pure darkness of the vampire, and the man he was today… it moved her. Reluctant though she was to admit it.

She came to stand over him and gently pulled back one of his bandages. A concerned frown graced her pale blue lips. He wasn't healing as he normally would. On average, the wound she currently examined should no doubt be nearly healed by now. All of them would have been, she guessed.

But all of them at once…

Her eyes came to rest on his face. His skin was paler than she could ever remember it having been. It was almost a pasty white. Like porcelain. Watching his face for a moment, she was sure to have seen a brief flutter beneath his eyelids, but then on—nothing. She removed one of her gloves and touched a hand to his cheek.

Ice.

She didn't like that at all.

The two blankets she'd covered him with didn't appear to be doing a spot of good.

Well, this was why she brought help. Replacing her glove, she turned her attention to the books that rested on the table nearby.

**A/N: Sorry that this was such a shorty. Ah well. I plan to update everyday, depending on reviews and what-not, so hopefully no one will be too bothered by it. lol R&R, please and thank you!**


	4. Silent Company

**Author's Note: **Ah, what the heck, uh? Since the last chapter was rather short, I decided to post up the next one. Also, cuz you guys (reviewers) are just great and I really appreciate your comments and praise! (I replied to each of you :D)

Enjoy!

**Chapter IV**

"You aren't very pleasant company," Illyria mused aloud into the silence of the church's basement.

The sleeping vampire did not respond.

Not that she expected him to. Obviously, she had done something improperly for him to not be healing as he should. Or, perhaps he was just that weak. He couldn't have been able to drink anything lately, either.

That was her current dilemma. If he wasn't awake, surely he could not drink. And maybe that was why he was still so weak. Perhaps he needed blood in order to heal properly. That was why she needed to quickly find a solution to aid him more swiftly along in his recovery.

Presently, she was seated in the large armchair that was located next to the sofa. It had been rather comfortable, she'd realized, as she had taken up the seat.

She still wore his coat. And, currently, she was searching within his books for a solution for her patient.

"I enjoy this," she spoke into the air. While the vampire was unable to respond in his current state, she could appreciate his presence, all the same. "I have missed the song of the Green." Her mind wandered for a moment. "Not your demon-clown, that is to say. Though I do wonder where he's gone." Her head tilted. "Why I wonder, I cannot be certain." She cast a glance in his direction briefly, watching over him, before turning back to the volume in her hand. She traced her fingers delicately over the paper surface. "While these leaves do not sing to me, they have a life all their own. And they listen impressively. To every word I say." She really did miss her gift to hear the plants' voice rise in chorus and lullaby. No matter. Some things were left in the past, and left behind.

One needed to move forward, she supposed.

"It's twilight again, now," she spoke quietly as her astute eyes scanned over the pages. "If you were cognizant, I'm sure you'd be pleased." She took her eyes away from the book in her hands and focused once again on him. "I wonder if you miss anything from the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. You spoke of how you detested what the structure had done to you. How it changed you. But it intrigues me: do you miss nothing from your former home?" Her attention returned to the book. "I expect you'd miss the windows. My knowledge has it that your kind bursts into perfect flame while under the kiss of sunlight. The solid veils of your transoms prevented this." Her eyes pulled away again and rested on the small windows above their heads and off to the side, boarded up. "I may be able to replicate this. With Fred's memories of your sciences and the knowledge of these books, perhaps you could have the same here, in your new home. I think you'd be pleased. After I've learned how to restore you, I will investigate further."

She did not witness a change in his features to show emotion, but no matter. She was sure it would please him.

"I wish I knew where to search in these texts. But it appears that I don't precisely know what to look for." As soon as she'd spoken the words, a memory hit her.

She remembered when she'd had a particularly nasty cut along her neckline, and how Wesley had seen to it with his magics and knowledge of doctoring. "Oh. Now I have it," she said casually. She spoke to the book of healing herbs and roots, magic powders, and the species of the vampire.

After a moment of scanning the information it gave her, she was ready.

She tilted her head. "It seems I have to go out again," she informed curtly, rising to her feet. "Don't be concerned, though. I plan to return. Soon. These ingredients should not be too challenging to obtain."

She was, after all: Illyria, former god-king of the world. What possible deviant soul or being could stand in her way?

---------------------------

The double doors to the church entrance slammed open, Illyria stalking through with a scowl on her face.

_Flotsam, _she thought with a bitter taste, _jetsam, and all things envious and dank. _

The Old One was not in the most charitable of moods.

She huffed as she descended the steps in the back with a vain tilt of her head. As she reached the bottom she began a most convincing speech for her efforts.

"You'd do well to appreciate this, half-breed. This was no pleasant errand." She gave his unconscious form a pointed glance. "I had to obtain the mucus from the flesh of a chaos demon. Spike told me about an encounter he once had with one of their breed." She came to a standstill in the center of the room, about six feet away from the sofa. "And while _his_ tale verged on amusing, I can assure you, my chaos demon was far more hostile than the accused that had been osculating with his former lover." She paused only to glare expectantly at the vampire before her.

Satisfied briefly, she continued on with her rant.

"Even further still—were you aware that one of your kind requested I scream for it? I killed him without a glance. He provoked me. I presume you'd understand."

She released a breath, pleased that she had gotten everything out that she'd wanted to say. She set all her findings on the small table nearby.

"However, on more pleasing grounds… I believe I've chosen a suitable haven to house you in," she informed proudly with self-praise. "None of your kind, as well as other demons, appears to even consider the idea of following me across its threshold. You should be very safe here for some time, still."

She gestured briefly to the items she had collected within an impressively short time slate.

"Once I unite these elements into the specified dosage, the result should effectively return you to your normal state."

With that, she got to work. She didn't mind that the vampire couldn't speak in return. She'd seen Wesley often talk to himself, and it appeared to have aided him in his work. She hoped it would yield the same results for herself.

**A/N: Tada! Another installment for you! I'll probably post the next chapter up tomorrow night. R&R, please and thank you!**


	5. In a Whisper

**Author's Note:** As promised! Here's the next chappie! And thank you so much everyone for your kind reviews and praise!

Enjoy!

**Chapter V**

_American Airlines_

_Flight 23_

Nina watched with a smile on her face as her young niece colored her a picture in the seat beside her. Her sister had gone to the bathroom.

Nina was about to compliment the girl when something on the small television screen above caught her eye.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight produced from the electronic device. Los Angeles was a chaotic battleground. The cameraman in charge was a bit unsteady in his capturing, but Nina wished he'd been a little more. She didn't want to see this.

Factories and small stores roared with flame, and monsters terrorized the streets. People ran and screamed for their lives, scattering like terrorized prey.

Her brow arched in sadness and worry. She hoped Angel was alright. He'd sent her away from the city, and now she knew why. Someone had to take care of her family.

She felt a burning in her gaze, and bit on her lower lip slightly, turning her eyes away from the monitor. Reaching over her, she put a comforting arm around her niece's small shoulders.

"It's beautiful," she said of the colorful portrait.

One way or another, she knew she would never see the vampire hero again.

-----------------

_Los Angeles_

_Day Two_

_Late Afternoon_

Illyria was in need of serious activity.

Or at least, that was what she had been thinking before her charge began to stir under the newly applied bandages and potions she'd changed the night previous. His quiet moan had nearly startled her out of her skin. With him out of commission for the past twenty-four hours or so, the church's basement had been silent like the grave.

At first, she wasn't sure how to go about the occurrence. She had been seated in the comfortable armchair and merely stared at him for a good while. Finally, she'd risen and come to stand over him.

As she watched him now, there was little change. A frown marked his brown, and he turned his head to the side once, moaning again almost silently, as if caught in a fever dream.

Blood! She needed to fetch him a body to feast on. That would help him to wake.

As soon as the thought filled her mind, she knew there was something unsuitable about it. When he did wake up, he would certainly reprimand her for having him feed off some poor innocent—slain or otherwise. That is what he would say. _She_ didn't mind in the least. Innocent, poor, or what have you… a corpse was a corpse. Nevertheless, he would never forgive her. What's more, he would never see himself in her debt or seek to repay her were he angry with her.

She paused in thought, her large eyes calculating.

Before long, she had a solution. And while he might still be repulsed by it, he would not be so upset this way.

_Hah_, she thought. Repulsed—him. She was the one who would be allocating the ancient and pure blood of an Old One's veins. Or, at least, the shell which housed the veins. Truthfully, she didn't find herself minding all that much. After all, it would no doubt save him, and save him more quickly.

And if Illyria was anything, she was swift in her dealings. Whether it be giving life, or taking it away.

She moved away from him briefly, and took hold of small blade in the growing pile of weapons she'd been collecting. Reaching up, she began to cut a small line down one of the seams of the fabric covering her forearm. It could be mended later, if she decided to. Physically or mystically.

That done, she then drew the blade across her skin, her face devoid of emotion. A small line of dark crimson sprung up after a brief pause. Casting the blade aside, she came back to once again stand over the vampire. Lowering herself to a kneel beside the couch, with one hand, she propped up his head as gently as she could. He stirred under her touch, brow furrowing slightly. Illyria brought her other arm forward, just before his lips.

He seemed to immediately react to the scent of liquid life, she could tell, but he made no move for it. Despite herself, she felt a small tug at her lips. He had done well to learn control over his years with a soul. Or… he was just too disoriented to act on the offer. She couldn't be sure.

She spoke quietly to him, trying to encourage him. "Drink now, half-breed," she told him soothingly. "The battle is over."

At first, there was a hesitation. Suddenly, though, she felt a hand at her wrist, his fingers barely grazing below the back of her hand before his lips were on her skin.

As he drank, she could feel him trembling where his hand covered her wrist. He was still terribly weak, she could see as he struggled to keep his arm up. His strength did not last long, for after another moment, he sank away from her and back into the sofa, his hand slipping away from hers.

Illyria tilted her head, studying him closely. She had hoped his eyes would open. She also hoped that had been enough. If it wasn't, she would just give him more until it was.

She was about to get to her feet when she heard him say something. He had spoken the word so faintly, she'd almost had to read his lips to understand.

_Buffy_, he had said.

She wasn't sure what the word meant. It seemed familiar to her ears, but she couldn't be certain. Knowing it had to be important, she began to search deep within Fred's memories to see if she could locate its meaning.

As it turned out, she did not have to search far.

"Buffy" was a regular and most commonly known word in the _Angel Investigations_ vocabulary.

"You call out, hoping for your true love to answer," Illyria said to him, tracing her fingers barely over his brow, distracted by her own mesmeric thoughts. Then, her large blue eyes fell downcast, growing saddened. "As do I."

**A/N: Tada! Expect the next chapter tomorrow night--**

**Angel awakes...**

**R&R please and thank you!**


	6. Awakening

**Author's Note: **Hey guys! I'm not sure if I'll be able to update tonight, so I thought I'd just chuck this sucker up now.

Enjoy!

**Chapter VI**

_Outskirts of Sunnydale_

Giles wasn't sure how long he had been seated outside the room. He'd been staring at the wall opposite him, trying to find something to count or analyze on the perfect smooth surface. He felt himself inwardly start as the door beside him opened and Willow quietly stepped out.

"How is she?" he asked immediately with genuine concern.

The weeping had ceased, he knew, but the last time he'd checked on her, the slayer only remained in her bed, silent and staring off into nothing. There were always moist rivers, fresh on her skin, and Giles wished he could do something to comfort her.

"Dawn's staying with her now. No change since you last saw her," Willow said quietly. "But I did get her to talk a little."

"I did hear a few things," Giles agreed, but then his face fell slightly. "It sounded as if she was crying again."

Willow nodded once, looking heartsick herself. "You know what she's feeling, don't you?"

Giles released a heavy sigh. "Besides the obvious, she also no doubt blames herself."

"Completely." Willow shook her head sadly, looking ready to shed a tear herself. "Giles… she's so broken over this."

"What did she say?"

"She wasn't there for him when he needed her most. He had the world crushing down on him there, with Hell on all sides. And she wasn't there to help him fight." Willow breathed a sigh, her shoulders wilting as she sunk to the floor and used the wall to lean on. "There was something else, too…"

Giles took to staring at the carpet now. "What's that?"

Willow searched for the words. "She didn't say anything about it, but I know it's on her mind. She _won't_ say anything because she cares too much."

"About who?"

"You, Giles." At his confused expression, Willow went on. "Angel contacted you a few months ago. One of his friends was dying."

Giles' face fell even more, closing his eyes; he put a hand over his face. "I turned him away."

"That's what I'm saying!" Willow huffed helplessly. "It wasn't just her, Giles, it was all of us. In one way or another. How did this happen? He was our friend—why didn't we…" She shook her head, tears springing into her eyes. "He was _my_ friend…"

Giles looked down at the young woman in tears next to him. He laid a hand on her shoulder consolingly.

"He was always there for us. It didn't matter why."

"He was a good man," Xander was suddenly above them, coming around the hallway. "That's what matters."

Willow and Giles looked up.

"I never really liked him... and I never pretended to," Xander smiled slightly, his eyes softening. "But that never stopped him."

Despite the sadness all around, Willow breathed a small laugh. "Helping the helpless."

"And I honor him for that," Xander clearly agreed, then turned his attention to the closed door before them. "Look…" his head bowed sadly. "We all cared about him in some way…" his eyes met again with the two, going between each of them. "But no one loved Angel like Buffy did."

No one spoke up in disagreement.

"Look, Will… I'm taking patrol tonight. I'll take Faith with me." His face softened meaningfully. "Stay with Buffy."

Willow gave a small nod, sniffing.

Giles nodded in return. "And I'll do whatever it is I do."

Xander, feeling the need to finish it off, also nodded. "We'll get through this," he said quietly. "More importantly, we'll get her through this."

The brief quiet that followed was moving, and all knew the coming days would be difficult.

"We will," agreed Willow softly. Gazing at the wall, she could see the temporary comfort Giles saw in it. "Still… it's so hard to imagine him being gone."

_I thought the world needed him…_

_------------------------_

_Los Angeles_

Dark brown eyes fluttered open softly.

At first, the brightness of the room seemed too overwhelming, for they narrowed slightly before opening fully.

His chest felt as if a large weight was pressing down, holding him still. The fog in his mind was still clearing, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened, or where he was, exactly.

All he could see was an old wooden ceiling, caked in a small layer of dust. It was night, he could sense.

Was he dead?

Officially, that is.

The last thing he remembered was the rain pouring down, the smell of blood and destruction, the screams and roars, and driving his sword through the skull of the dragon, just as its jaws closed around him…

Angel tried to sit up, but the weight on his chest prevented him. He knew nothing physical was holding him down, but rather he was just as sore as the day was long. Or night, in his case.

Mustering all his strength, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His brow furrowed. It looked as if he was on a sofa.

Yes, most definitely a sofa.

If this was Hell, it was most certainly different than the last one he'd been to. Looking down before him, he noticed the many bandages scattered amongst his form. Reaching carefully, he began to pull one back to inspect the damage. What he saw surprised him. Whatever grisly wound had been inflicted, it was healed over fully now. All that remained was a nasty-looking scar, which, in time, would also go away.

He imagined all the other wounds would look the same.

When his senses began to finally come back to him in fuller awareness, he felt immediately that he was not alone. Turning his head, he inwardly started at the sudden sight of her.

She was seated not six feet away or so in an arm chair, silent, and staring off at something. A nail sticking from the wall? He couldn't be sure. Maybe she was counting air molecules again.

His brow drew together in uncertainty. Did she know he was awake?

_What is she doing? _He thought incredulously, and a little cautiously.

He decided he may as well try to get her attention.

"Illyria..."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Now, he was just getting creeped.

"Illyria?"

Suddenly, with a flutter of her eyelids, she seemed to come from a trance. She turned to look at him. "I was sleeping, vampire. I did not hear you the first."

Angel paused. That was definitely creepier than the staring. He now knew why Wesley could never tell when she was asleep.

Almost immediately, though, something dawned in her icy gaze. "Oh," she said. "You are awake."

She looked… almost… pleased. Angel didn't know what to think.

"You…" he cleared his throat, annoyed at the weakness of his own voice, "you survived." It was almost a question.

The modest gladness vanished, and her eyes flashed with irritation. "Of course I survived," she snapped, as if he made some great offense. Which, to her, he did.

He searched for something to say, but found himself equally drawing a blank in that department as well. He had opened his mouth to speak, but now closed it awkwardly.

To his surprise, her features softened. "Your appearance has improved since I brought you here. Before, you were the embodiment of Death, itself." As if he couldn't become even more lost, her following question shocked him. "How do you feel?"

He could only stare at her. What had happened, exactly? And why was _she_ giving a flying _anything_ towards his personal health?

Her head tilted in that strange manner of hers. Unblinking, she asked, "Have you swallowed your tongue? Speak."

Finally coming out of his state of confusion, somewhat, he cleared his throat. "I-I'm sorry, I…" The unsteadiness of his voice frustrated him. And he wasn't about to tell the former-conquering demonness that if he tried to stand, he would most likely fall down without making it two feet. He still felt in a haze.

Then, without warning, the idea of a person swallowing their own tongue—not to mention the imagery of it—struck him. And, he didn't know what else to do, so he started to laugh, his throat and voice hoarse from inactivity. He hadn't thought he would live past the battle in the alley.

The look on her face was also amusing. Her brow knit together, her features scrunching slightly, and her head tilted once more. "What could you find so amusing? I was concerned you would sleep forever. You've been comatose for more than forty-eight hours."

The laughing had taken some energy out of him, so he sunk back into the cushions of the sofa. It drained him so much, he almost thought she'd said she'd been concerned.

Still… two days.

"How did I get here?" he asked. "And where is 'here'?" He thought they were rather simple questions.

She seemed to think so, too, for she answered them just as simply as one could.

"We are in the crypt of a derelict minster. I brought you here."

A church? No wonder he was feeling a little… unwelcome. It didn't bother him to be in such a place, and he could no doubt overcome the mystical uncomfortable-ness. That wasn't what he was questioning.

"These wounds looked pretty bad…"

"You were also nearly consumed by a winged lizard. Your condition was critical."

"Therein lies the point," Angel agreed. "How did I…?"

"After I brought you here, I returned to the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. I obtained those magic tomes and attained instruction from them. Also, you needed blood, so I lent you some of mine."

"What?"

"The trouble was none. Worry not, I have plenty more."

He made a face, slightly uncomfortable with the idea, but didn't press it. She'd saved him, no doubt. He should be grateful. And he was. No matter how disturbed, otherwise. But then, his face lost all trace of humor that remained, and he turned his head to face her soberly, knowing the question needed to be asked. "What happened, Illyria?"

Her face softened slightly, and she looked away—her attention falling on an errant thread or something amiss on the chair's arm. "I… I'm uncertain. I do not know whether to say we won, or to say we lost. If winning is to say all of our enemies that night suffered an ugly demise, then we can truly triumph, I suppose."

A grin cracked the corner of Angel's lips. "Conquering all, no quarter given… isn't that what you said?"

"That is winning," Illyria agreed softly. Her head bowed. "But I do not feel like a champion."

"Welcome to the club," Angel said sympathetically. "We rarely do. But people keep accusing us of bearing the title, so I guess there must be truth in it."

"Truth," Illyria spoke the word as if she was unsure whether to trust it.

_Lie to me… _his voice whispered in her thoughts.

Seeming to notice for the first time, Angel asked, "Why are you wearing that coat?" The familiarity of it was not lost on the vampire.

Illyria hesitated, a rare vulnerability in her eyes. "I…" she lowered her gaze to take in the sight of it on her form. Gently, she touched a gloved hand to the fabric. "It is warm, and I do not need it." Her face had grown masked again, stern and almost unbreakable. But there was a single fracture in it, nevertheless. "But yet, I wear it."

"It belonged to Wesley," Angel said caringly.

Illyria found she could not take her eyes off the comforting suede. "And shall always."

Something in the Old One had changed since her first arrival. That much was obvious. But something had changed since the night of their final stand against Wolfram and Hart as well. Softly, Angel asked again: "Illyria, what happened that night?"

Her eyes flickered to hold his gaze. For a moment, there was silence between them. Then, Illyria released a very human-like sigh, her eyes drifting away. "We will speak of it at another time, half-breed. You need your rest."

Angel closed his eyes, irritated at her stalling, but knowing that perhaps it was for the best. He wasn't ready to hear it.

He wasn't ready for Truth.

And by the sinking in his chest and the sick feeling within him, he didn't think he ever would be _ready_ for it. He wasn't blind to the fact that he and the usually insufferable Old One were the only two in the "decrepit minster". He could attest to the knowledge of such a thing by the burning he was beginning to feel behind his eyes.

"I will retrieve more blood for you in the morning," she said—just so he would know.

He relaxed back into the sofa once more. Allowing darkness to sweep over his vision, he heard Illyria's voice through the quiet of the room.

"You said her name. In your sleep, you spoke of her."

Angel opened his eyes.

"It seems to be a common inclination among those who feel human emotion."

He was going to ask which name he'd said, but he already knew. Instead, he said, "Thank you, Illyria."

He turned his head to witness her features take on a form unlike he'd ever seen. He didn't think anyone had ever thanked her with such honesty or gratefulness.

Then again, he didn't imagine she'd ever given anyone a reason to. She was definitely changing. Maybe even becoming a person. In some manner or another.

Then, to his great surprise, something incredibly extraordinary happened to her face.

She smiled.

"I am glad you are awake."

**A/N: Tada! Okay, if I can't update tonight, I can't. But... if I CAN... you can still expect a new chapter. **

**R&R, please and thank you! You guys are wonderful!**


	7. Healing Gifts

**Author's Note: **Okay, so it turns out I COULD update tonight. Ah well. That just means you get two chapters in one day. lol

I don't mind. And from the enthusiasm of your reviews, I doubt you'd object, either. :D

Enjoy!

**Chapter VII**

_Day Six_

_Late Morning_

Moving around had become no problem for him now. His strength was returning impressively, though he still felt a little shaky on occasion. He was sure that would go away soon, and he'd be back to his old monster-slaying self in no time. After all, he didn't think this was near as bad as the time he'd been to Hell and back. Thinking of the torment that lasted more than a century, it certainly put a few sword wounds and nasty bite marks into perspective.

He didn't know where she'd wandered off to. When he'd woken up, she'd been gone. He wasn't worried. She'd usually drift back and forth. She'd explained the cause for her comings and goings once to him, but she did so in such a complicated speech pattern, he'd simply skimmed the cliff notes and nodded.

It had something to do with being trapped in a box with him. On occasion, she remembered that she wasn't supposed to like him, and she'd throw out a rude comment or insult.

It didn't bother him in the least. More than anything, he found it amused him. Her metaphors and name-calling were often well thought out and inventive. And while some verged on a more vulgar plain, his favorite had to be "carnivorous leech" or "sulker of shadows". Despite the accuracy, neither had meant to be endearing at the time. He'd laughed, which had only upset her further. She didn't speak to him then for the rest of the night.

Currently, he was trying to sort through all the weapons she had been collecting from her trips to the outside world. Some, he didn't even recognize, or know how to use them. He figured he'd let those ones alone. With his luck, they'd eject airborne stakes or spray him with water which wasn't entirely unblessed.

His wardrobe was somewhat complete, now, he was happy to say. A long-sleeved dark shirt hung loosely on his form, a gift from Illyria. She'd pulled it off a corpse, he imagined, so it had to be washed before wear. She still had much to learn about this world.

He'd thanked her for it, surprised by her good will, before she proved she was not to be dubbed a saint so quickly. She'd told him she had sized him up from the moment they met, so her 'shopping' had not taken long. Her moods were often hot and cold with him. Well… slightly under lukewarm and cold.

Deciding to leave the weapons alone, he took up one of the ancient volumes for reading material and headed for the armchair. Collapsing into it, he reached over and dragged a small bench over to him, placing his feet up. He opened the text, speaking an old favorite of his into it, and relaxed back into the cushions.

He heard her coming about a minute before she reached the bottom of the steps. She glared at him as she entered. He didn't look up from his reading, but he could tell she was in a mood. A brief smile ghosted across his lips.

"Your kind is pond scum," she told him, moving across the room, "are you aware of this?"

Trying to hide his smirk, he flipped the page, not taking his attention away. "Well aware," he agreed.

"Will you not give me full concentration when I speak?" she demanded vehemently.

He looked up from his book. "I'm sorry," he amended amicably, "what happened?"

"I found a nest. Your kind _nests_—like vermin," she told him as if the very idea was appalling. "I decided to kill them. It was an effortless task." Here, she went into an incredibly descriptive tirade about just how exactly she disposed of them. "But then," she went on with great feeling, "one of them made off with my new Bavarian ax. He fled like a coward, disappearing into the sewers. _My_ weapon, he took."

"That's terrible," Angel agreed calmly.

"Horrendous. If ever I find him again, I'll gut him like I would swine. I'll place his entrails on display as an example," she avowed angrily.

Angel grimaced. "Not around here, I hope. The smell would get sort of unbearable."

Illyria seemed to consider this. "Then I shall strangulate him with his own intestines." Her head tipped back imperiously.

Angel made a face. "Mm," he shook his head. "I'm afraid that wouldn't work, either. You can't strangle us. We don't need oxygen. Maybe a simple stake to the heart would be best."

Illyria scoffed, her eyes flashing with irritation. "Your breed aggravates me."

"I know. Can't really get too creative with us, can you?"

She huffed a sigh. "It matters not, I suppose. Besides, I am too great a being to waste my time pursuing such an undignified and wretched creature as he."

Angel cleared his throat a little loudly, getting back to his book.

"Here," he heard her say, and he looked up as she pulled a bundle from her coat, tossing it at him. He caught it. "I took it off one of them. I figured you would object less were it stolen from one of your own kind, than another corpse."

He unfolded it to see a long-sleeved button-up over-shirt. It was exceedingly faded—but appeared to have once been a chestnut brown. Now it was more of a dust-gray. If he put it on, he guessed it would reach a foot or so past his waist. "Thank you," he said. It wasn't all that impressive appearance-wise, but it was the thought that counted, and he appreciated it.

"I could not find you one of those billowing coats you seem to favor, but I presume I'll have better fortune tomorrow. If I find one, I'll bring it with your blood."

Angel nodded. From the look on her face, she was pleased with his reaction. She appeared to be in a better mood now. Her temperament, he found, was much like a light-switch.

He'd given her the location of his preferred butcher. He had been an out-of-town contact, too, so luckily for Angel, the guy was still in business.

Not many shops in L.A. were open these days.

"You should rest," he heard her say. "You're pale again."

He cracked a grin, setting the book down. "Well, on good days I don't usually hold a lot of color."

"I can separate the difference. You also possess a darkness under your eyes."

He cast her a stubborn glance.

"It will do you no good to spite me—only delay your recovery further. I say this for your benefit, vampire."

He was oddly touched by her concern.

Breathing a sigh of defeat, he rose from the chair, prepared to take up a residence on the sofa. As he passed a small table, his eye caught on the VHS tape he'd noticed more than once.

"You never told me what this was," he said casually, giving it a nudge on the table as he passed by it.

Her eyes flickered to the object in question. She studied it for a moment, rather without a thought. "I don't know," she said, hearing him getting comfortable on the sofa. "Something within me encouraged my taking of it. I found it in…" her voice trailed off unsteadily, "in Wesley's office." She turned to look at him and found him to be sitting upright, still. "Is there a way we could study it?"

"What—you mean like watch it? We'd need a television and a VCR. I don't think we'd find one here."

"Then we shall find both tonight," she declared. Then, thinking twice, she reconsidered. "Or perhaps it shall be only I to carry out the search. I know what a television is. But you would have to describe the other contraption. You are not quite well, yet."

Angel considered this. "Actually," he began. "I wouldn't really mind a break from this place. Get some air."

"But I thought you didn't breathe?"

Angel looked at her in confusion for a moment. "Wh—no, that's not what I meant. I'd just like to…" he tried to think of an explanation that didn't involve a metaphor that involved human qualities. "Stretch my legs, get out for a while, test the waters, that sort of thing."

"I believe I comprehend your point," she agreed.

"Yeah," he said, then flashed a smile at her, "maybe we can even find your arch nemesis with the Bavarian ax while we're at it."

"Yes," she agreed, comic rage flashing in her eyes. "He will pay for his insult against me."

Angel chuckled at her rash sense of retribution and relaxed into the sofa, swinging his feet around and up onto the other end. He used the baggy shirt she'd found him as extra cushion behind his head and closed his eyes.

There was silence for a moment before her voice cut through the quiet.

"Could I lash him to a pike before the sunrise?" she mused aloud. "So his compatriots may witness his humiliating demise?"

Eyes still closed, he allowed a grin to spread across his face. "A flagpole would be better," he advised, light remnants of sleep entering his voice. "Harder for his compatriots to attempt a rescue."

Even though he could not see her, he could more than sense the pleased look of triumph on her face.

**A/N: Tada! As per normality, you can expect another chapter tomorrow night. Also, the shirt she got him--it's supposed to be like the one Angel wears in the Buffy episode "The Wish", when Anya gets Cordy to wish away Buffy. I just didn't know how the heck to describe it. Sorry about that, lol. R&R, please and thank you!**


	8. The Masks We Wear

**Author's Note: **And here's our regular nocturnal update. :D

Enjoy!

**Chapter VIII**

_Los Angeles_

It had been nightfall when they left. Surprisingly, they had run into very little trouble. Though he would not admit it—especially to the proud and competitive demon woman on his right—he was glad for it. He didn't think he'd perform all that well were he to get into a no-holds-barred fight this soon.

Illyria was more than happy to do the killing. Angel got a few novice stakings in as well. Other than that, Illyria was firm in her mission to find the "device that bears visions" and its counterpart, the "vision-maker".

She also asked him something about Crash Bandicoot, for some reason.

An old pawn shop had held their prey. Illyria had been happy to kick her way into the store—smashing glass and steel alike. He knew that asking her to be a little more inconspicuous would fall on deaf ears. He still didn't know what the big deal was about watching that tape. But, Illyria had been insistent on the matter. And while he was happy to get away from their shelter for the time being, she had told him it would please her.

Ever the vampire willing to please, he went along with it.

Plus the whole prospect of her saving his life fell into the equation somewhere. If this was the sort of thing it took to repay a former demon-king ruler older than anything else on the planet that was currently living or undead… he could handle it.

"Beware of that hitch in the earth, half-breed," she cautioned him as they walked now down the sidewalk, pointing out the ridge in the pavement.

The idea of her "looking out for him" struck him as funny. He'd seen the crack without even realizing it, thoughtlessly about to step over it as he held the television to his chest. It seemed to make her happy, so he didn't mind. "Thanks." But then, he recalled when she had requested to keep Spike as her personal pet. He made a face. He hoped that wasn't the case with him. Awkwardness and protest would then ensue.

The night air was a little chilling, he admitted silently. He was glad he'd pulled on that extra shirt she'd lifted for him. She walked just a step ahead of him, VCR under one arm, and the cables with it. She'd offered to take the television, but he convinced her that if they were attacked, it'd be easier if she was less weighted down, since she would be the one doing most of the defending.

Ahead, Angel could see the church.

"This ritual will work, will it not?" he heard Illyria ask.

"It should. I'd give an immediate 'yes', but considering our source—it could be a little iffy."

She cast him a glance. "What do you mean?"

"Pawn shops tend to be on the cheaper side of things," he explained. By the expression she made, he could tell she didn't understand. "Think of it as getting one of your ancient scrolls from a secondhand lard demon named Earl who smells like feet."

The face she made almost made him laugh out loud. "I am seeing your point."

He chuckled. "Don't worry. It should be fine," he assured. "If not, you can just go back in the morning and tear up the place. I'm sure the owner's not around to mind."

"I would have much rather torn apart that vampire who humiliated me the day before."

Angel found himself amused. "I'd thought you'd forgotten about him."

"Not likely," said Illyria. "He _will_ pay. It is only a matter of time."

A scream off in the distance made Angel cringe. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Don't be worried. You'll be well and fit again soon. Then you can be out here protecting all through the night." She paused, seeing Angel only half-comforted by her words. "And I in the daytime, if it would please you."

He cast her a glance, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Yeah, it would. I'm sure L.A. citizens would appreciate the offer as well."

She gave a sort of nod, dwelling over the idea. Finally, she said, agreeably, "Looking after you has amused me. But I'm certain I could expand my studies further towards those who do not hide in the shadows."

Hearing him laugh pleased her.

Though she noticed his smile did not reach far. Ever since that night—and since he had awoken… there was a sadness to him. Even deeper than before. She knew he was always the languished sort, keeping more to himself and quiet. But now there was something even more that caused the troubled frown that often accompanied his features. More so when she wasn't looking.

She was no fool. She knew that most of what he showed her was a farce—a happy face he wore, to hide from her his true thoughts. She did believe he enjoyed her company to a point, though. And perhaps that was what kept him level. Another person. Someone to converse with.

Wesley always told her that being alone in the world was perfectly devastating. Oddly, though, she found she didn't want to study the vampire and this emotion he showed. She wished to rid him of it. Although she would never admit it aloud… she had always admired Wesley just a little bit more when he smiled. Sarcastic, saddened, or otherwise. It's result had left a pleasing and attractive twisting of the facial features she could appreciate.

Perhaps aiding the vampire would please her as well, for reasons she couldn't understand.

She thought she might know what troubled him, but they had reached the church entrance, and they had work to do.

As they entered, Illyria told him she knew nothing of the workings of the device they obtained. He'd promised her he'd take care of it. She believed him and was happy she'd finally sate her curiosity towards the mystery tape. It had been a productive night.

------------------------

"There she is," the vampire said, shifting his new Bavarian ax in his hands. His name was Jerry. Four of his friends watched carefully, exchanging glances with one another. Their vampirism stuck out like a sore thumb on the abandonned street.

"Who's that with her?" another asked suddenly.

There was a brief silence amongst them as they observed before one of them piped up with the answer. "Holy crap, that's that vampire with a soul. Angel," he whispered.

"I thought he was dead!" Another hissed, panicked.

"Of course he's dead," the first snapped.

"You know what I mean!"

"Will you guys shut up?" Jerry snarled. "I want them both dead. Starting with that little blue bitch."

"Jeez, Jerr! They're going into a church! We can't—"

"What's wrong with you? Of course we can. Just don't touch anything and you'll be fine, ya buncha' babies."

"She's pretty tough, though, isn't she?"

Jerry scoffed. "There's one of her and five of us."

"There were also four of _you_ when she took out your old spot."

"And she's got Angel with her." The vampire shuddered, the ensouled vampire's name elicting dangerous foreboding that crept down his spine.

"Relax. She got the drop on us because we weren't ready for her. We weren't paying attention, and neither will she when we pay a visit tomorrow night," Jerry growled, yellow eyes glimmering as he gripped the handle of his new ax firmly in his hands--fully intent on putting it to good use.

**A/N: Tada! R&R, please and thank you! You can expect another chapter tomorrow night, most likely--dealing with the question Angel does and doesn't want to know the answer to, and also the question Illyria keeps avoiding. **

**Strong Illyria/Wes and Angel/Buffy, with tender mentions of Angel/Cordy. Also some very very light Illyria/Angel--but more so on a "caring comrades" level. Not romantically, but I suppose one could take it that way if they were looking for it. lol**


	9. Heartcry: Moving On

**Author's Note: **Here's a long one for y'all. I have a Halloween party to go to tonight, and I wasn't sure what time I'd be home, so I'd figured I'd up and post this baby now. It's a pretty long one, I'm sure you won't mind. :D

Enjoy!

**Chapter IX**

_Day Seven_

_Late-Morning_

He felt… different. Waking up today, something seemed different. Not just with him, but the day as well. He couldn't place it. He felt a mixture of anticipation, and… something resembling the calm before the storm.

Being torn between the two put him at odds, so he decided to place it aside for now.

Still comfortable on the sofa, he hadn't quite opened his eyes for long.

Last night, he had turned in early to get some more rest—after he'd set up the television system for Illyria. After that, he'd been wiped. He hated to admit it, but the long day and trip outside had worn him out.

She seemed to understand, and he promised her they'd investigate the tape sometime today.

He didn't know where she'd gone off to after that. He was asleep as his head hit the pillow, he was sure of it.

Becoming more aware as he drifted out of sleep, he heard voices to his left. His brow furrowing—and finding himself with an utter lack of wanting to move from his comfortable position—he merely listened.

_"How do you turn this thing on?"_ a tinny voice queried in a thick English brogue.

_"Just give it to me!" _demanded the high voice of an ex-cheerleader.

Angel opened his eyes.

_"It's not a toy!"_ the Englishman protested further. _"This is an expensive piece of equipment for gathering evidence!"_

_"Let go!" _

_"You're just going to play with it, aren't you?"_

Sitting up, Angel turned to his left, curiosity piqued entirely. What he saw surprised him. The television had been placed on the small table, the VCR beside it. On the television screen, a familiar recording was being played.

Not far away, between himself and the table, sat Illyria. Cross-legged and on the floor, full attention on the screen. She wore the jacket still, but her gloves were discarded on the table also. She had told him once that she enjoyed feeling things—the sensation of touch. Lately, she had been enjoying the feel of both the supple furniture cushions and the mighty steel weapons—an unlikely combination. Though, all the more entertaining.

Angel watched as Wesley came into view, flexing his muscles comically at the camera. _"Pryce. Wesley Windam-Pryce." _He then proceeded to take off in a flurry of embarrassing dance moves involving disco and his own private technique he'd then insisted was the latest fashion.

His eyes fell on Illyria… who was smiling. It was the most gentle look he'd ever seen mark her features—showing off her teeth slightly, her eyes filled with warmth.

And as film-Wesley attempted an advanced trick and collided comically with the camera, he was sure his ears deceived him, thinking that maybe he had heard the softest evidence of a laugh.

Angel felt himself smiling. "I'd forgotten about this."

Illyria cast him a brief look, noting his wakefulness. The smile had faded slightly, but it hadn't vanished completely. She turned back to the television, watching him, rapt. He did something else uproarious that caused her smile to widen again. "He was so happy," she observed, her eyes filled with admiration.

Angel allowed his smile to grow. "Everything was simple, then." His eyes softened as a familiar brunette appeared on the screen, smiling.

"_Mmm… milk." _

His smile finally broadened into a grin, and he chuckled quietly at her following skit.

"_Mmm… milk! Milk." _A pause. "_I don't get it. How am I not working?" _

Illyria watched him closely, observantly. Her head tilted in that odd manner of hers. In the background, the tape eventually ran out of material, and all that remained was a blue screen.

"You loved her," she said into the still and quiet air. It more closely resembled a question.

Angel hesitated to meet her gaze, fiddling with his hands. At last, he faced her with a partially saddened smile. But it also bore peace.

"Once," Illyria amended. "It was not her name you spoke."

Angel relaxed back into the sofa cushions in thought, still sitting upright. He wasn't sure how to explain it to her. "After Buffy, I… I tried to move on…" he began.

Illyria's face grew soft as she studied him. "But you never ceased in loving her."

Angel didn't reply. There was no need to.

Illyria delved deep into Fred's memories to better understand. "With the slayer, you found your perfect love—perfect joy. Your separate spirits completed the other's in absolute symmetry. One cannot replace such a thing, or turn away."

"In the end… you are never _really_ capable of moving on. You cannot simply discontinue loving the one who shares your soul." Illyria hesitated, her eyes flickering downcast. She sat in silence for a lingering moment, tracing an elegant finger delicately along a simple rift in the floor. "But we try… don't we?" she said softly.

Angel remained quiet and still, watching her.

"Without them, you feel barren… and so, you can either remain alone—haunted by their face and memories," Illyria looked up at him, eyes glittering, "or… you can hope to find the one you will love second-most. Trusting that perchance their presence will ease your sorrow. Blind with innocence. Beautifully naïve."

Angel had since looked away, but the Old One's words reached him none-the-less. His eyes focused on the blue screen before them, deep in thought, its hues reflecting in his steady gaze.

"You will never be out of love with Buffy Summers. The devotion between you is too powerful to neglect. And still you endeavored to escape from her memory with Cordelia Chase." Illyria's eyes focused entirely on him. "Did you really love her, vampire?" she asked tenderly, genuinely wanting to know. "Or was it simply the idea which melted you?"

Angel thought long and hard about the question presented before him—searched deep within himself. Despite being an old, twisted piece of dead flesh, he searched also within his heart. Finally, something Buffy had said to him put everything into perfect perspective, and he was granted with a revelation. With that revelation, his eyes softened, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "No," he said, finally at peace with what had plagued him many a nights, "but she's in my heart."

It was as if a giant weight had been lifted from his chest—bringing him release at last.

Illyria's eyes continued to focus on him, and eventually, she gave a single nod, understanding. Then, bowing her head, she felt a strange stinging behind her eyes. She'd only felt it once before in her entire existence. "This thing called 'love'… is it worth the blood and sacrifice to give in to its embrace?" she asked the silence.

Instead, it was Angel who answered. "The scariest thing in the world is to be alone." Illyria lifted her head at this. Angel studied her closely, unsure of whether to finally speak the words. If worst came to worst… she would either ignore him or beat him senseless with the television. He decided to risk it.

"Did you love Wesley?"

Her eyes never left his, but at the question, he witnessed something shatter within her. Within her bright blue gaze, there was a helplessness—a sorrow, beneath her stoic mask.

Gradually, she looked away, closing her eyes with a flutter. Bowing her head, he heard her sniffle quietly. When she opened them again, a layer of moisture had filmed over their surface, clinging to her lashes. She gazed off towards the windows, almost as if she was looking past the wooden barriers and into the sun and sky. "If I am Illyria, I loved him," she said, her voice slightly broken. She allowed her eyelids to fall closed again. "With all my being and more."

Angel's features and softened with sympathy and care at her confession, and he sat forward on the sofa after a while, reaching out to her. "Illyria…"

He watched as a small crystal-like river traced its way down her fair skin, over the roundness of her cheek and past her jaw line. Illyria blinked as she felt it land silently and delicately on the top of her hand.

She stared at it, transfixed, lifting her hand curiously to examine the tiny dot of emotion.

He said her name again, but she'd only tilted her head—still studying her hand, which she then brought forward and touched to her cheek.

"My face is leaking," she said, almost casual, but still with a hint of remorse. "It happened once before… when I watched Wesley die."

"You're crying," Angel explained gently, the barest of smiles on his lips. "They're tears."

Illyria faced him, still seated on the floor. "This event… this is a trait of humanity?"

"Yes." Angel waited.

Illyria looked again at her hand, touching her face faintly with the other. "It is strange…" she said, "for I do not seem to mind."

Angel's smile stretched a little further. The two sat in silence for a time, basking in the thoughts and words of their meaningful conversation. Illyria turned to study him. He was not looking at her, but at some unremarkable point on the small table. A frown graced her pale cerulean lips. The sadness in him remained.

"There are so many things I don't understand of this world," she began quietly. "But I had been certain I knew the makings of a true ruler. I was a god-king of this world, once."

Angel cracked a grin. "You gonna give me that speech about plankton again?"

Instead, he watched as she rose and switched off the television, but her back continued to face him. She remained there for a while, calm and still.

At last, she spoke. "You wish to know the events of that night. What happened. To know the truth, no matter how painful."

Angel watched her closely. On the surface, he wanted to know everything—he was tired of being left in the dark. But… in his heart, he wasn't ready for it. He would never be ready to face the events of that night. He was terrified of the truth.

Illyria turned to face him. Her eyes were meaningful and earnest. "This would please you?"

He held her gaze for a long time, stalling in the silence. His face held deep sorrow, his brow arched in sadness. He cleared his throat, and without looking away, he told her, "Yes."

Her head tilted slightly and she watched him.

He was certainly not ready to hear it, and she was not ready to say it. However, the more she dwelled on it, the more she knew of its importance and the need for each to face it now. If they indeed waited until they were ready, it wouldn't mean as much. If they waited, it would lose its magnitude and worth on them both. Their comrades deserved better than such a thing. They did not deserve to be forgotten.

More importantly, their friends deserved to be remembered, and honored.

The vampire seemed to understand this. And he accepted it, even though he knew it would break him.

She admired him for that.

Preparing herself in order to recite the night in question's events, she did not know how.

------------------------

Her head hung low as she spoke quietly, "Wesley fell first. This you are aware of."

Angel cleared his throat, swallowing thickly as he tried to steel himself for her retelling. He remembered some things, but his memory was still foggy on most of the events.

"Vail was his death dealer. I came in after the fact." Illyria's lower lip quivered slightly. "I took on Fred's form to comfort him, and then he died in my arms. I killed Vail with vast intensity."

She was mindful of the vampire's reaction to everything she said. For the most part, she could see that he was trying to appear without emotion. But she knew better than that. She knew this was more than a briefing to him.

"After that, I arrived at the alley," she trailed off here, her brow knit with painful remembrance, though she fought to keep her own features neutral. "The human, Charles Gunn… I had been generous when I gave him the ten minutes chance. But he lasted longer than even that. It was his will that drove him. For a time, he fought at your side. I'm sure you recall. You both looked out for one another.

Then, he shouted you a warning. You disposed easily of the creature attacking from your blindside, but the human had given up the knowledge of his surroundings to alert you. A large demon took him from his right. They battled very briefly. The human killed it before he, himself, fell."

Angel felt a deep pain within him as he listened to her explain the night he lost everything—or near enough to it. All his friends had perished. Even though they knew what they were getting into—agreed to it, even, the hurt was no less. He shut his eyes tightly, and she remained silent.

She waited until he was ready for her to continue.

"What…" Angel took mentally what was the equivalent of a deep breath. "What about Spike?"

Illyria's brow furrowed slightly, her head tilting. "I thought you despised him," she said quietly.

Angel cleared his throat. "I-I did, I know that, but… that doesn't mean he doesn't matter. I… he fought with us, up to the end." Angel's face softened. "I honor him for that."

A brief smile ghosted across Illyria's lips. "Then you are truly as noble as they claim," she told him, observing him for a moment. Her face then took on a sadness not entirely common on her features.

"He lasted well into the fight—up almost until it was nearing its end. He was one of the greatest warriors I've ever witnessed in battle—next to you or I. Left and right, he would kill—swift and sure. He fought much like you did," she noted, a little surprised.

Angel smiled slightly. "We fought side-by-side, back in the day," he explained. "Even fought each other, most days."

"You had been friends?" Illyria asked, unable to hide her shock.

Angel chuckled. "Well, we were evil. And, we both enjoyed tormenting others and inflicting pain on humanity. It only made sense—the tormenter of my tormented is my fellow tormenter, and all that. Plus, we had ladies to feed."

Illyria smiled slightly at his reverie and how he told it. Angel, too, took a moment before his lightness died away and he asked her to continue.

Illyria hesitated to take in the design of the simple floor. It was difficult, she would not like to admit, for her to continue. "There was a time, into the battle, when I became overwhelmed," she finally began. "With foes coming at me from all sides, I was uncertain if I could once again gain the upper hand.

Then, behind me, I heard him making his way to me.

He saved you once or twice, and you the same. I thought I would say so, so that you would not have to admit it.

He cleared most of my enemies away, so that I could gain proper stance again. We fought together for a time, before we were surrounded again. I saw you fighting to reach us, to lend us your strength. But you were too late. Having upset that lizard prior to this time, the thing attacked you from your left and pitched you to the earth, engaging you with vicious intent.

I turned, and as I began to make my way towards you, I heard Spike call to me. I knew before I could possibly face him again, that I would not do so in time before the creature would have struck me. I doubt it would have killed me, but it would have severely incapacitated me, nonetheless.

As I did turn, I heard the creature's spear meet flesh. Before my eyes was Spike, the wooden ax handle through his heart." Illyria blinked, suddenly furious and wrought with grief. "I… I didn't even acquire a chance to… to react to his death—before he was gone. He saved me, and I could not even…" she trailed off, shaking her head. She met Angel's gaze, outraged and pained. "It is _sick_," she snapped. "The way you creatures die. It offends me." Through her rage, her jaw shook as she struggled for words.

Angel met her gaze evenly—grief evident in his own. "I know," he said gently. "I'm sorry."

She inhaled deeply, trying to collect herself. After a moment, she appeared to have regained a portion of her calm back. "And you…" she said, finally looking at him again. "You fought with great honor. You, too, saved each of us at errant times during battle, as each of us did for you. We were a single force—a band of warriors, a…" she fought for words, but she found she could not explain herself.

"A team," said Angel finally, finishing what she meant to say.

Illyria's eyes locked with his, large and touching. She nodded slightly, seemingly proud. "Never have I been part of such a thing before," she said. "It feels… unlike anything I've known."

Angel nodded in agreement, happy for her revelation and touch with humanity. He'd help her through it, if she needed him.

And then… everything she'd told him, and the past month's experiences, finally began to sink in. He felt a sinking in his middle and a heavy weight on his shoulders so unrelenting he had to lean over, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

How much could he really take? Before it broke him completely? With a soul, he was really just a man. He had suffered heartache time and time again without release. He found he was quite near his breaking point, and he didn't know how he could handle it much longer.

"Angel," her voice broke through the stillness, surprising him. He couldn't recall a time when she had actually called him by name.

Hesitant at first, his eyes raised to meet hers.

The utter compassion in her gaze startled him, and he found, stubbornly, he'd rather she just mock him and get this conversation over with. Again, he found he wasn't ready for this.

"I have witnessed in one night…" she began with great feeling, "what it is you are faced with every day.

The level of which you have sacrificed is more than I can ever begin to comprehend." She took a step closer to him as he continued to sit. She looked down upon him for a time and then she began to descend, taking a knee before him. Her eyes stared up into his, searching and yet encouraging. "I thought I knew the price it took to make one a ruler. What one had to stand for in order to achieve greatness. I was blind in my beliefs.

I see now, the true face of a king—his strength is born through his love. And through the sacrifices he makes. You do not need a crown or title to be recognized for what you are, vampire. And you may not be one by formalities, but you are kingly in every sense."

Angel felt the weight of her words hit him, and he felt her hand touch his face comfortingly.

"You have suffered great loss. Your comrades—your friends—gave their lives for you, because they believed in you. In your just cause."

He shook his head, trying to discourage her from continuing. "Illyria…" He wasn't ready for this. He felt a deep swell of grief and pain in his chest, and he wanted it to end. What he _wanted_… was to move on. Even though he knew the truth of her statement earlier.

One never moved on. They could pretend to, to try with all their strength and might. But the old love, the old memories, and the old pain—it never left or went away.

Angel felt the stinging in his eyes as his vision became slightly blurred.

"No," she said firmly, but her voice was gentle. "You must face this. And I will help you."

He knew that trying to keep the moisture from falling would only be a waste of his energy, but that didn't mean he was giving up that easily.

Illyria's face softened, the smallest smile gracing her lips. "When Fred was just a small child… her parents would comfort her. They did so in a way I never understood. I could never comprehend the solace behind it—or how it was successful. But it was the simplest phenomenon. They would embrace her… and her fears and troubles would melt away as if they had never thrived."

Angel breathed a laugh, taken by the simple story, but again faced with truth. He hid behind his mockery. "I'm not hugging you, Illyria." Even through the quip, his voice still shook.

Her eyes would not look away from his. Her gaze was steady and firm. She gave the slightest shake of her head. "I was not asking."

Angel's smile fell away, and his features molded into a heartrending look of sorrow. He didn't bother stopping the tears, feeling their trailing warmth as they began to gently descend.

Before he could say anything further, Illyria reached up and took him into her arms.

She heard him attempt to sniff back and stifle his emotions, but it didn't last. A sob escaped him, and soon, she felt his arms around her in kind, clinging to her like a lost boy.

For even a king was once a child.

She didn't know how long this vampire had held back and put his own needs and feelings aside—to make time for others and forget about himself. She only knew it had been far too prolonged. The breaking point had arrived, and she was the only one there to mend it.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair in comfort, his weeping muffled against her.

_A tiny voice within rebuked her for her display of humanity. And consoling a vampire, no less. Illyria—former god-king of the earth. The arrival of which the world shuddered at. Worshipped by fellow idols and gods. She was the wanderer—traveling dimensions as she pleased. She was a keeper of time—bending it to her will. _

She found herself preferring _Illyria_.

Just _Illyria_.

**A/N: I really hope you enjoyed that! I worked extra hard on this chapter and some of the following scenes to come. R&R, please and thank you! Another chapter tomorrow, most likely. :D**


	10. Dance of Primordial

**Author's Note: **Okidokee! Routine update for y'all!

Enjoy!

**Chapter X**

_Before Dusk_

She watched him as he slept.

It was more of an observation than a show of endearment. Or, perhaps it wasn't. She couldn't be certain, lately. Every waking moment, the humanity within her seemed to be swelling. She found herself less threatened by such a thing nowadays.

Still, she often conjured up ways to ensure that her former title would not be forgotten.

For instance, there was a modest, though quaint, structure not twelve blocks from the church dubbed as _Piggly Wiggly_—an undignified title, to say the least—that she'd a mind to conquer some day soon. No doubt she'd have very little resistance.

She remained hesitant, however, on whether she would reveal her strategy to him. Her head tilted in her study of the sleeping vampire. His closed eyes were very slightly rimmed, still, in scarlet, from his display of grief. Beneath, that, however, were unhealthy shadows in their hollows. His face was still incredibly wan—even in the still day-lit room and taking his breed into consideration.

He _was_ healing, though—however gradual. Briefly, she wondered if she might not provide him with more of her own blood—instead of the animal's he'd had her retrieve from then on. She hadn't been able to lend him much during her first donation.

She was vaingloriously proud, though, that the letting of her veins had brought immediate results towards his health. Still, he would probably object. For the vampire was also proud. He'd want to heal on his own time, instead of thieving the strength from another.

He slept with an allayed peace, which she was thankful for. The only thing that marred his angelic face was the barest of frowns. So, perhaps there was a hint of endearment in her study. As much as she loathed to admit it—considering she was supposed to despise him—his presence was growing on her.

In her peripheral vision, she took very slight notice in the fading golden rays that slipped through the boarded windows.

The soft rustle of fabric and cushions caused her to glance back at the sofa, where the vampire was waking. His brow drew together tiredly, and he stretched. It wasn't long until his eyelids fluttered open.

Despite herself, she smiled slightly as he looked at her. "You slumber like the Dead."

She was pleased when a small, halfhearted grin cracked the side of his cheek. "I am the Dead."

"And yet you live," said Illyria, watching him still from the large armchair.

She couldn't quite discern the expression on his face for the look he gave her. It was a hybrid of slight dejection, but also acceptance and knowing. Then, in another instant, the sorrow was gone and replaced by a gratifying sort of warmth. "Thank you, Illyria," he said, his mood lighter now. "I'm very grateful for what you did."

This pleased her. She tilted her head back, bright eyes narrowing slightly. "You are welcome, Angel," she told him kindly, surprising herself. He smirked slightly, and it was obvious that was the first time she'd ever said such a thing to him—or to anyone whom she could recall. She waited for him to mock her, but he never did. Illyria tilted her head, glancing at the small table nearby. "I obtained fresh swine blood for you," she said, rising from the armchair. "I presumed you would not accept more of my own."

Angel sat back in the cushions, giving a small shake of his head. "There's really no need for it," he assured her. "I'm feeling better—stronger."

She tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Truly?" she inquired slyly.

His brow furrowed, and he regarded her with a funny look—at a loss for what she was playing at. "Yes…" said Angel carefully.

"Good," said Illyria, a single syllable stabbed into the air. She then took up a defensive stance. "Then you shall do well, at last, to challenge me," she declared, rather proudly.

A dark eyebrow arched doubtfully into his forehead. "What?"

"Take up your weapon of choice, vampire," Illyria urged rather flippantly, gesturing to the large desk towards the corner of the room. "You have been out of your practice for exactly seven suns and moons. You are in ominous need of training." Illyria snatched two small warrior axes which had been resting against the side of the armchair. "Therefore, we shall do battle." She twirled them once with expert fingers, then remained still—waiting expectantly for him to attack.

Angel only stared up at her from the sofa, a dumbstruck expression plastered upon his face at her sudden proposal. After a moment, he said, "_Ominous need?"_

Illyria's brow knit together. "You are offended?"

Angel's eyebrows shot up comically. "A little."

"Good."

Angel's face scrunched up in indignation. "Hey!" he protested, and Illyria only smirked—giving him the look when she had been allowed to throw Spike around in the training room. "You make it sound as if I couldn't go three rounds with a fruit-fly. I've heard that before, and it wasn't any less aggravating back then."

Illyria tilted her head. "With my blood, you could drop thirty legions of these fruit-flies with a single glance. If only you hadn't cast off my offer so hastily," she chided. "Come, vampire. I have a need to strike something."

Angel couldn't believe his ears.

She was taunting him.

He tried to deepen his frown in order to hide his mirth. The twitch at the corners of his mouth finally gave him away, and she twirled the axes in her hands expectantly, a fine eyebrow arched.

A slow grin of snide relations spread across his face. Amused, he nodded. "Alright," he said. He rose from the sofa, looking down at her from his height. "Alright, you Smurf," he conceded, chuckling as he moved past her and took up a large broadsword, getting a feel for it in his hands—testing its weight.

Illyria still had her back to him, but her neck craned so that she could leer at him from the corner of her eye. Narrowing her eyes, a smug bend lifted her lips ever so slightly. Angel, hoping he was as well as he said he was, tossed the broadsword lightly—allowing it to twirl rapidly in the air by its axis before catching it again.

It would do no good if she was able to whoop him like some novice yutz.

He felt only a little faint, but he knew she was right—a little practice would do him some good. Not that he wasn't sure he could totally own a fruit-fly any day of the week, but lately—a hummingbird seemed iffy.

Illyria turned to face him, grin firmly in place with anticipation. She backed around the couch into the larger space between it and the stairs. Angel followed casually.

Angel smiled softly. "As my good friend Spike would be happy to say…"

But Illyria was already there. "Let us dance, you and I."

**A/N: Tada! There is your fill for tonight--expect another tomorrow! Tomorrow's chapter will be much longer, too. R&R, please and thank you!**


	11. Destiny

**Author's Note: **Really sorry guys. I won't be able to update tonight--so, you're just going to have to get this chapter about eight hours early. lol It's a long sucker, too. No complaining, now. :P

Surprises lay ahead... O.O

Enjoy!

**Chapter XI**

"That is the second time I've been associated with this 'Smurf' creature since my time here," said Illyria, sidestepping one of her rival's attacks. "Though it displeases me to say—I've grown somewhat curious at its relevance."

Angel ducked her sweeping strike, feinting to her right thereafter. "Oh," he said, shrugging a shoulder at her question. "It's an old cartoon show. They were like little… ah… I don't know—elves? But smurfs."

Illyria scoffed in irritation as he knocked aside one of her kicks. Neither one was battling at their full ability, but it didn't irk her any less. "But what is their significance towards me?" she asked more hospitably. "Did they worship me? I must say, half-breed, you will certainly not be gaining my good grace if you are calling me after my followers."

Angel laughed. "No," he amended. "They just had blue skin."

Illyria faltered in her stance, shoulders slumping slightly. "Oh," she said, a little disappointed. She looked back to him expectantly. "Did none of these car-tunes worship me?"

Angel smiled at her mispronunciation. "Cartoons. And no. I don't think their creators knew about the Old Ones _or_ the Deeper Well." At her look of disappointment, he quickly amended: "But they could have. Some of them used to be our clients." Briefly, he wondered if she was going to ask if _Wolfram and Hart's_ clientele involved the smurfs.

"What of this Crash Bandicoot?" she asked, pressing further. "He battled many gods, did he not? Surely, _he_ knew of me."

Angel stopped in his movements, allowing his shoulders to sink. "Illyria, Crash Bandicoot is a video game character."

Illyria frowned. She suddenly brought her two weapons down against him, to which he deflected quickly with his broadsword. The blades sang upon connection. "But his crystals," she insisted. "They most resembled those of my sarcophagus. Who are these cartoon beings that they do not know of my essence or chronicles?" she demanded.

Angel gave her a tolerant, though reproving, look. "Don't you think you're being a little harsh on them?"

She stepped back, allowing him to gain proper footing again. She glared into the floor beneath her feet. "Perhaps you are right," she ceded. Reluctantly, of course.

"Besides," Angel went on, shrugging and setting himself for an attack position. "You probably have all sorts of nerdy-types bragging you up on the CR's," he assured, attacking from her left, faking a jab and then rolling to the side. "Qua-suses, or sahns—whatever you call them."

"What is a CR?" Illyria questioned with a tilt of her head, dodging his attack easily and blocking his second with a crossing of her weapons.

"Chatty Rooms. Internet Boards. Hell, they talk about _me_ there."

"I do not know of these, either." Illyria seemed crestfallen, and then confused. "Are you certain you pronounce this correctly? Chatty Rooms?"

Angel paused in thought, a slight 'o' to his mouth. He blinked, trying to shrug off his uncertainty. "Probably not. I'm technologically challenged that way," he confessed. "You should have seen me with a cell phone." He set out with another forward attack.

"I know what that is," Illyria declared happily, and easily blocked him.

"So did I," Angel agreed. "Doesn't mean I could wield the thing like a Scythian bow, though." He pressed towards her with a spinning attack which took a lot of effort, considering his condition.

She had to work to deflect it, though, for which he was proud. "We old ones are strangers in this new world, aren't we?" she mused aloud, staring off.

Angel paused to rest, putting his hands on his knees. "I think we always will be. We're too accustomed to our time of youth. We got used to things the way they were."

Illyria tilted her head slowly, her eyes flickering about the room without a pattern in reverie. "I think I was never young."

"You must have been," Angel shook his head. "You couldn't have existed forever. Only one guy I know of can say that. And we're His houseguests." Angel straighted. "Though, His hospitality towards me leaves something to be desired..." he mumbled as an added afterthought.

"No," she agreed. "I think I am just so very old, that I've forgotten."

Angel watched her, grateful that they were taking a small break. He hated to say that he was getting worn out, but… he was getting worn out. His broad shoulders slumped, causing the broadsword's point to drag tiredly on the concrete. He guessed it was concrete. Or cement. He didn't know the difference. He smiled though, despite his exhaustion. "You know… you referred to us both at one time," he pointed out. "Last time someone referred to themselves in comparison to you, you put them through a wall. I think you're growing as a person," he told her lightheartedly.

Illyria wasn't all too amused. She faced him with a scowl he found rather comical. Her sharp eyes narrowed at him and when she spoke, he could tell she was miffed. "You use my patience out of turn, half-breed," she cautioned him, readying her weapons again. Though she appeared irritated, he knew by her face she wasn't angry.

He pressed further, going back to his previous proclamation. "Are you saying we're friends, Illyria?" he ribbed, knowing it would aggravate her.

It did. She sneered, narrowing her eyes at him. "Bold little leech." Without a warning, she attacked from a forward position. Taken by surprise, Angel struggled to block it, steel ringing in the little church basement.

She struck again from the side, and he danced around it, blocking the next. Her following, though, he was not so quick to deflect. One of her blades struck the back of his hand, the sudden pain causing him to drop his weapon. It clattered to the floor as he grimaced, trying to shake off the minor injury.

Illyria immediately backed off, her features falling troubled. "Are you all right?"

He hissed at the burning discomfort, but nodded. "Fine."

Illyria watched him carefully. If she were human, her cheeks would have reddened. She bowed her head slightly. "I… I am sorry."

His eyes went back to her, surprised at her apology and the fact she was issuing him one. "Really," he said, showing her his hand, and that no serious harm was done. "It's okay."

She inspected his hand for a moment from where she stood, but shook her head. "Still… you are tiring quickly now. You should rest."

Angel sighed. "Taking a break sounds promising," he agreed, but then shook his head as he bent down to pick up his fallen weapon. "It's not that I can't handle it, it's just…" he searched for the words, "I don't know… I feel… weird."

Illyria gave a slight tilt of her head. "Explain."

"I really can't say," Angel stepped back and leaned against the rear of the sofa. "Ever since today, when I woke up, I've felt… strange." He gave another shake of his head. "Something's off."

Illyria sifted through what he'd told her, searching for an explanation. "Do you think it is my blood in you that causes this?"

Angel shook his head. "No," he said. "Because I've felt the same up until today. I look the same, don't I?"

"You continue to appear pallid, but you are still healing. Even so, your shell's appearance has improved since the moon before this coming night."

Angel pushed himself away from the sofa. "Maybe I just need a drink," he muttered.

"There was something, though…" Illyria began hesitantly, catching his attention as Angel cast her a glance over his shoulder as he stepped around the sofa. "You fought stronger than you should have. For a being of your condition, I mean." At his confused expression, she explained further. "You still cease to exceed my strength in your current state, but your attacks and the way you defended were slightly beyond the bounds of someone who should lack full strength, thus far."

"Maybe you just miscalculated."

Illyria scowled. "I should skin your hide."

"I'm just saying," Angel put his hands up in surrender, and to his displeasure, he felt his voice catch, becoming a little dry. He couldn't be _losing_ strength. "I feel like I got run down and backed over a few times by an eighteen-er. I can't be as strong as you say."

Illyria's brow drew together in thought. "Then I do not know what to think," she murmured.

As Angel moved over to the small table bearing counter to his dinner, he felt a little light-headed, the room spinning slightly around him. He blinked, trying to shake it off. He took up the glass he'd poured himself, leaning against the table for support. He huffed, shaking his head. "You and me both, Dory," he agreed, putting the glass to his lips and taking a few gulps.

Illyria still stood in the center space of the room. She cast him a glance. "What is a Dory?"

Angel made a face at the taste in his mouth. "It's ah…" He pulled the glass away and inspected its contents. It certainly seemed fine. Pig's blood. Just like always. "Another cartoon character." _Trust me, _Angel thought_, if you've been around Lorne enough, you find yourself learning all the pop culture history. _"She's a blue tang, from… from…" Everything was spinning again. He closed his eyes tightly, opening them again in hopes of clearing his vision. "Finding… Nem…"

It started in his middle. A dull sort of ache that grew upwards, slowly at first.

"Angel…?"

The snail's pace over, it flushed through his system, up, traveling along his spine…

The glass slipped from his fingers, plummeting and shattering against the floor—sending glass flying and blood pooling.

…before it reached his skull—assailing him with a sharp, sudden and blinding pain. Angel cried out, bringing a hand to his forehead while his other grasped at the table's edge, trying to steady himself.

"Angel!"

Despite her call, he could barely hear her—her voice had sounded drowned out compared to the rushing in his ears, so far away. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and yet pictures danced across his vision.

_Flashes of light… and a doorway… white stone room… blue and gold-skinned creatures… a man and a woman—or male and female… black robes… bright azure eyes… familiar… more light assaulting his already aching sight… and…_

Nothing.

Angel gasped, coming out of his state, panting as the pain slowly, slowly, began to ebb away from his being. He took in his surroundings. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen, for now he was on the floor, on his knees. She was at his side, knelt beside him—one hand on his back, another on his arm.

"Are you all right?" She asked for the second time that day—though this time there was significantly more alarm lacing her voice. "Angel…"

He blinked hard, putting a hand to his brow and groaning. "It's okay," he said. "It's…" he focused back on what he had witnessed, confused as ever. He was surprised he'd had a vision—he'd forgotten completely about possessing the gift—but he couldn't understand what had been shown to him. "I… I saw…" he shook his head, at odds. "Oracles. But… they're dead, I don't understand…"

"Saw?" Illyria repeated. "You have the gift of Sight?" she proclaimed. "_How_?"

"Visions. I… got them from a friend." Angel winced, his splitting headache finally dissipating.

"Can you rise?" Illyria asked, unsure of what she should do.

Angel placed his palms firmly on the floor to steady himself. "I think so."

"These Oracles. Is it vital we convene with them?"

Angel nodded. "I'm thinking there must be something going on, or down, or… I don't know…" he winced. "God… I don't…"

"Angel, what is it?"

Angel cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor, unable to hold himself up.

"Another one?" Illyria said, worried and not knowing what to do. "So soon after?"

"No…" Angel cringed, shaking his head. The pain was returning in full scale. "No… something's wrong…"

Illyria was certain of that. She kept her hands on him, unwilling to leave his side. Thoughts began to rush through her mind—worries and fears. What would she do if he left her? She would be alone. Utterly and completely. As of this moment, she knew no one in this world but him.

Angel shouted in pain, and suddenly, the walls around them began to shudder. Illyria knew of earthquakes. She could sense them. Even caused a few, back in her day. But this was no earthquake. She knew not what it was, and so it frightened her.

Not for her own protection—she could more than take care of herself. But she knew nothing of what was causing her ally this grief, or what was stirring around them. The walls trembled, the old boards moaning eerily. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, and some of the weapons clattered off one of the tables.

Angel cried out again—the pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The vision had brought him pain that birthed within his skull. But _this_… this new torment… originated within his chest, and he clutched at it now without release. This pain did not come in flashes or jabs; it never let up. It was as if all he had ever known was this anguish—everything that came before was a blur.

It felt as if a thousand demon knives were tearing into his flesh at once—magnified to a worse amount. Internally, his body was on fire—_had_ to be—yet freezing at once.

He screamed in agony, squeezing his eyes shut as tears sprung and streamed from them. Illyria was at his side, in a panic. He felt his face change to its vampiric likeness, his cry morphing into a monster's suffering roar—fangs bared. Illyria's brow arched helplessly. She could only hope the torment would end, and she would stay with him until it did. If it did.

As if on cue, Angel's demon face began to recede back into hiding—his eyes fading from gold to brown again, and his fangs shrunk back into normal incisors. A brilliant white light—dwarfed significantly—seemed to flash in his eyes for a split moment.

The human eye wouldn't have been quick enough to spot it.

A final scream died on his lips, and left him trembling—shaking horribly. Illyria held him, best she could. "Angel…"

His breathing was shallow and quick—too quick. It was almost a wheeze, pained and uneven. His teeth chattered slightly, even though he wasn't cold. Illyria was sure of that. Where her hand touched the skin of his hand and the back of his neck, she would swear he was falling ill to a fever—compared to the usual coolness of his undead flesh.

Her sharp ears picked up on something… a steady drum. She looked around, nervous that someone may have been planning an attack. _Now_ would certainly not be a convenient time.

Angel found it hard to focus his gaze on anything—the pain still fresh in his mind, while something else sought to meddle with his internal gears. He felt completely drained, a strange sensation within him… he still couldn't steady his breathing.

The drum continued, like a heavy bass thrumming…

_BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM…_

_BOOHM-BOOHM… BOOHM-BOOHM…_

Illyria warily looked around, her large blue eyes probing the area. "What is that sound…?"

She felt Angel squeeze her hand slightly, without even realizing it, probably. He laid on his side, in a manner, one hand—the one she held—against his chest, and the other outstretched against the floor.

Illyria was about to question him further, when her query died on her lips before so much as a syllable passed them. She felt something… as she gripped his hand, and he in return…

Slowly, as if someone had turned her time-deceleration ability against her, her gaze slipped and drifted down to him.

Not only did she continue to hear the drum… she could _feel_ it.

She was about to speak—or attempt to—before something else far more important and evident caught her attention as if it seized her with a hook. "Angel…?" she began, gaze steady on his other, outstretched, arm.

A slight ray of fading sunlight still leaked through the boarded windows. It tenderly kissed everything it touched: the floor's smooth surface, a small corner of the worn, yet beautiful, area rug, and…

Two inches of Angel's hand was blanketed by a golden shaft of light.

His flesh went unburned.

**O.O - ****R&R, please and thank you! **


	12. That Which is Hidden

**Author's Note: **I'm busy tonight, so I figured I'd up and post this sucker now.

Enjoy!

**Chapter XII**

"You're a…" she trailed off—at a complete loss. Illyria gaped in blatant shock, her slender jaw partly slackened.

Still trembling from the episode, Angel slowly allowed his eyes to fall on his outstretched arm. Though the sun was fading behind the horizon, its final grasping rays still bathed his flesh affectionately in glorious light—leaving him uncharacteristically unscathed.

His lips parted, searching for the words to speak, but they never arrived.

He could not only sense the vibrant life around him, he could _feel_ it—within himself.

He felt completely and entirely_ alive_.

Everything felt so different.

His faint heartbeat—_his_ heartbeat—sounded more like the strident drumbeats of an angelic choir, rejoicing, in his ears. His chest expanded perfectly with every breath. Tentatively, still in shock, he touched his fingers to his cheekbone—feeling the flawless, mortal warmth of his own skin.

He was terrified.

How had this happened…? And why?? Clearly, there was a reason behind it. Too many questions flew at him at once, sending his mind a-scramble. What had caused this? How? Why? Why now? Who was responsible?

Immediately, all the questions suddenly vanished with a sudden burst, like the discharge of a shotgun. One simple statement caused all the questions to disappear into nothingness.

He was human.

Lost in the moment divided by panic and absolute bliss, he found himself unable to act on the unexpected miracle.

"Angel…" her voice broke through his silent daze, slightly fearful. Illyria preferred things she could explain. This, she most certainly could _not_.

She would not get a chance to, either. For it was then that a rumbling crash came from far above them—assumingly near the church's entrance. Illyria's attention snapped into focus, eyes alert.

She'd had yet to move from her position at his side, and she didn't yet intend to. Protectively, her grip tightened on his arm and shoulder, her icy stare flickering about vigilantly. "The froth of the streets have become brazen," said Illyria darkly. Her eyes narrowed in the study of the air before they widened considerably in astonishment. "The Dead invade the church," she spoke, loud erratic footsteps echoing above their heads. She shook her head, turning to him. "The sun is swiftly vanishing above our brows and almost lost, but still it breathes—how is this possible?"

Angel pushed himself up slightly on his palms, turning his attention towards the closed door to their far right, across the room. His arms wobbled a little unsteadily. He felt frail and weak—not because of his freshly acquired and unexplained humanity, but because of the sudden radical shift. "Sewers," he whispered, unable to look away from the door.

The footsteps drew worryingly closer, loud and bearing doom.

"They are quick," Illyria hissed quietly, shaking her head. "Too quick."

"They've just fed," he explained, still slightly in a fog, an eerie foreboding to his words. He sat up farther, onto his elbows, watching with her. "They'll be stronger, now."

They had reached the stairs, the wood groaning and cracking in discomfort beneath the charging weight. Quickly, Illyria pulled the disoriented former-vampire to his feet, helping him stand. "Can you fight?" she asked quickly, her voice firm. As she pressed him back with one hand, she kept half her attention strictly on the door.

"I…" Angel shook his head, watching the entrance, unsure of what to think. Everything was happening too fast. "I don't…" He didn't know.

_SLAM!_

The door to the small basement flew off its hinges, landing on the concrete floor with thunderous timbre. Five ill-tempered vampires crossed the threshold, undead veins raging with fresh blood—driving their adrenaline to the max. Illyria spun to face them, stepping protectively in front of Angel—her stance imperial and threatening. The five bared their fangs in either arrogant smirks or dangerous glowers.

Illyria would skip formalities of introductions or questioning. "You are not welcome here," she declared, the blue in her eyes all the more icier. In truth, if it was only her, she would care little to none about such a thing and dive straight into the executing. But now, she had to look out for the man at her side. On average, she could dispose of these cretins within moments. But now, victory would not come so easily when one of her eyes would be keeping protective watch over him.

One vampire stepped forward, arms spread in irritating pride. "That's not your decision, little girl." The fresh blood in his system made him overconfident. Though, he was right. This was no home. It was of public association—even if abandoned.

Illyria tilted her head, eyes narrowing menacingly. "You would do well to seal your maw," she advised coldly. "For you are especially ignorant regarding the outcome of the last creature who labeled me such."

"Please excuse my friend," the vampire, Jerry, began—stepping forward past his companions. "He talks too much."

"_You_," Illyria growled, a scowl twisting her lovely features.

Jerry grinned. "We're not here for that," he said, pulling the Bavarian ax from behind his back. "We're here to fight."

At the sight of the pilfered weapon, her eyes flashed with ancient fury. "Then you have come to die," she snarled.

Jerry's smile died away and molded into a frown. "I don't think so," he said, then shouted: "Take them!" At once, the remaining four charged forward, teeth bared with inhuman roars sounding.

The first one to go was the vampire who dared to belittle the Old One with childish monikers. Illyria took him by the side of his face, grasping each ear and tearing them away, a scream ripping from his throat at the vicious assault. As he fell, Illyria kicked out a leg, snapping a post off the nearby table, flipping it up into her hand and shoving it through the undead one's heart. This played out in the span of three seconds.

After knocking away the next in line, she twirled to face her comrade. "Stay back!" she ordered. "I will fight them!"

Angel didn't like that idea. At the moment, he stood with the wall against his back for support, still lightheaded, but more aware. He didn't think such a plan would work out anyway, because one of the vampires slipped past the battling Old One and came for him.

Illyria was furious at the nerve of these bloodsucking fiends. Their boldness surpassed her own explanations of what she considered a death wish.

Did they not know who she was?

Illyria ducked an attack, rising swiftly back up before she snapped her assaulter's neck, thereafter driving her makeshift stake into his heart with great pleasure. Three remained.

The vampire showed off a grin of razor-sharp fangs. "Angel," he rasped. "I've been meaning to…" but then, he paused, brow furrowing and smirk faltering. "You…" the creature shook his head. "You can't be him," he said, bewildered. "You're human." The scoff on his demonic face soon twisted into a predator's gleam, however. "All the more easy." As he attacked, Angel ducked and took up one of the fallen weapons at his feet, blocking the vampire's next assault.

Illyria seized her own opponent's shirt collar in both hands before pivoting and slamming him into a nearby wall—the old frames cracking under the force. He weaseled out of her grip, throwing a punch at her. She caught his fist effortlessly in hers and snapped it to the side at a vicious angle, bones shattering in the arm. The vampire shouted in agony.

Uncaring at his suffering—though wishing she could unleash more upon him—she placed her boot firmly on his chest and shoved. He was sent back and into the briar patch of lumber from the recently abused wall, several wooden slats piercing his heart at once.

She ducked as a Bavarian ax blade hummed past her head.

Angel, a little unsteady, remained mostly on the defensive as his opponent came at him from errant sides. Blocking another attack, the vampire seized the weapon Angel held in his hands. Losing his footing, Angel inwardly cursed as this caused him to surrender necessary balance. The opponent vampire ripped the long ax from his hands and smashed its handle into Angel's jaw, knocking him aside.

Illyria glared daggers as she and her 'arch nemesis' circled one another like rabid wolves. She wasn't concerned.

She knew who would win.

Jerry flashed her another grin, swinging the ax through the air viciously, splitting the air. Illyria easily avoided it, and the two locked in combat. Through a series of blocks and offending blows, the match was made slightly more even by the fact that this vampire, Jerry, wielded an ax.

_A very impressive weapon, at that, _Illyria seethed. _That which is not rightfully his._

She probably could have ended him long before now if he wasn't so high off of feeding. He altogether irritated her.

Angel had yet to receive any chance of delivering his own blows. This was getting bad. The irony of Fate's timing didn't escape him. Of all the times to be attacked by a pack of vampires...

He knew it then.

He was going to lose.

Not only was he human, but he was also weakened from the transition, and highly disoriented. He couldn't focus for the life of him. It almost seemed as if he were fighting two opponents. It was certainly his dizzied vision which showed him double. He felt the flesh of his cheek split as the blade of the long ax tore into it, his failure to dodge all the more obvious for it.

Too late to act.

The vampire before him let out a growl and charged him, ax upraised and fangs bared in feral malice. Angel flinched back, closing his eyes out of instinct and placing his hands before him.

Illyria took a hit to her jaw to build her rival's confidence. She was pleased at the success of her strategy. Overcome with pride, Jerry swung the Bavarian beauty in a slicing arc, straight down at his foe.

Illyria's steel gaze hardened even more without mercy, knowing then she had triumphed. She caught the ax blade in her now-gloved hand, closing her fingers tightly around it in a death grip.

Jerry's eyes widened.

Illyria tore the ax from his grasp, bringing the handle swiftly up to directly connect with the vampire's chin. Jerry's head snapped back. Illyria swung the ax with sharp precision, ashes settling around her. She straightened imperiously, eyes falling half-lidded as she glared down upon the remains. "This is mine." She gripped the handle possessively of her recently reclaimed acquaintance.

She spun around, but froze stiff at the sight before her. Her eyes widened in disbelief, jaw falling slack.

Angel's eyes remained tightly closed. But, slowly, they began to open. When they finally settled on what lay before him, his expression took on a form that most-resembled the Old One's.

Angel held his arm out before him. In that outstretched arm, he held the struggling vampire by the throat—said vampire's boots were a good two feet above the solid floor. In the creature's mêlée, he had dropped his weapon, and now clutched at Angel's vice grip with both hands.

Angel only continued to gape in amazement. And utter confusion.

Illyria, finally breaking out of the spell, scooped up a fallen stake in her free hand and planted it in the airborne vampire's back, all the way through to its heart. It wailed before falling to ashes. Angel stared, shaking his head slightly after a moment and slowly lowered his arm. At a loss, he looked to Illyria for aid and explanation.

She, too, seemed defeated with uncertainty.

Finally, it was Angel who broke the mystified silence, "Should that have happened?"

Illyria tilted her head, looking first at the remains of the officially deceased vampire, and then to the former-vampire before her. She did this twice more before she responded. "I submit that we convene with these dead Oracles immediately."

**A/N: Tada! R&R, please and thank you! More on the way tomorrow! Happy Halloween, too!**


	13. Freedom Gained

**Author's Note: **Again, sorry I won't be able to update again tonight. So, here's the chapter early again, lol

And I want to thank you all for your wonderful reviews. I am really honored by some of the things you guys are saying. Thank you.

Enjoy!

**Chapter XIII**

_Somewhere Beneath Los Angeles_

"I'm not entirely certain I comprehend the significance of this postal bureau," Illyria complained. "Why are the resting grounds of archaic seers situated in such a location as beneath it?"

Angel glanced around the area carefully. He didn't look at her as he responded, stepping up to the waist-level column, "I don't make the rules." The column's center was hollowed out, awaiting the proper persuasion that would allow entrance through the mystical archway before it.

"You certainly don't follow them, either," Illyria cast him a glance, paying more attention to the sealed off stone archway. "You live and breathe when you should be a walking parasite—feeding off the life of others and slithering about in shadows. You defy nature's order."

Angel made a face. "I appreciate your perceptive description." His lightheadedness was gone from memory, which gave him at least one thing to be certain and pleased about. He felt alive, but he also felt extraordinarily more powerful than any human being should—which remained a mystery. It wasn't a vampire's strength, that was for certain. He'd tried several times to pull his demon face from within, but each time had failed.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the potions necessary for access into the separate realm. Obtaining them hadn't been quite so easy a task. Although, Illyria's newly reclaimed prize and his yet unexplained power took care of the brunt of it. "Still, that's what we're here to find out. Last time this happened, it didn't go so well."

Illyria's attention snapped to him in full. "This has happened before?"

Angel dashed a few powders into the column's orifice. He squirmed slightly at the question. "Well… kind of. Technically, it never happened…" he closed his eyes, giving a quick shake of his head. "Long story."

"Clearly."

Angel pitched in the final tonic, the bright flames licking at the air. He spoke then to the column. "We beseech access to the Knowing Ones."

A brilliant light whiter than any other began to engulf the space and the two warriors. Moments too late, Angel recalled a vital factor he'd been foolish enough to let slip his mind. Cringing, he could barely think up a curse before he felt a familiar weightlessness and forceful pull, a rush of wind billowing around them.

Immediately, he felt his feet touch solid ground again, and the light vanished.

The realm remained unchanged—perfect in every way.

Angel glanced to his left, and Illyria exchanged a look with him. "This is the House of Knowledge?" she asked, icy gaze flickering about critically with an air of comic superiority. "My temple was far greater."

Angel shot her a reprimanding glare. But then his face twisted in dread. "I… um, I might've forgot…"

"What?"

A vast rush of wind filled the air around them, causing Illyria's hair to whisk and Angel's shirt to flutter. Angel winced. "A gift. We need a gift!" he whispered roughly, frantic. He had never been without a gift—and he didn't care to know otherwise. He'd been close once, and that had been embarrassing and life-threatening enough. Finally, his stare settled on the intricate and divine Bavarian ax still hanging from Illyria's grasp. "The ax!"

Illyria's eyes narrowed at him, her head tilting.

The wind rushed swifter. "Illyria—give them your ax! We need a gift!"

"The hell, you say." Her voice was firm and flat—leaving no room for debate. Her hold tightened on the weapon possessively, and she took half a step away from him.

Angel groaned loudly. "If we don't have a gift, there will be no conference." Then, muttering, he added: "And, they'll most likely kill us."

Illyria stood straighter. "Then I will make them," she growled.

"Silence your tongue," a masculine voice commanded. "Or we shall have it."

Both Angel and Illyria turned their attention to the newly arrived oracles—male and female, clothed in black silk and robes. They came forward with marveling grace, large cobalt eyes unblinking. Their golden-bronze flesh seemed to shine in the brilliant air, blue lines marring its excellence.

The woman smiled when her gaze fell on Angel. "It is the champion," she crooned. "Do you possess an offering?"

Angel turned his attention back to his companion. "Illyria, give them the ax."

Illyria's glare of doom would approximate a thousand volcanoes bearing down on the former-vampire's head.

Angel quickly glanced at the oracles, who seemed to be turning a little impatient. "Illyria…" he pressed, turning back and looking her in the eyes. His features softened slightly, insisting. "Please."

Her own mask of refusal faltered a bit, though her frown deepened. Her leather gloves squeaked as her grip tightened around the ax's handle. There was a drawn-out moment of inactivity before Illyria finally appeared to surrender.

Achingly slowly, she began to face the oracles as if her joints were solid steel that needed to be persuaded. Reluctantly, her arms outstretched, grudgingly presenting the great weapon before the two soothsayers.

The woman took hold of it and made to take it. Illyria's grip tightened. The female seer frowned—fixing Illyria with a reproving stare. The demoness' stiff fingers finally released the handle.

"Lovely," the woman smiled, admiring the weapon before handing it off to the man. He allowed the air to take it before it disappeared into light—swallowed by the realm.

Illyria looked ready to kill something.

Angel cleared his throat as the meeting could now begin.

"Why are you here, Lower Being?" the male oracle questioned, bored and disapproving.

"Do not call him that, Brother," the woman chided, then turned to Angel with a smile. "You seek answers, Angel."

Angel looked uncertain on how to begin, but proceeded. "Yes."

"First and foremost," the male began—unwilling to be so easily defeated. He aimed a hand at Illyria. "_That_ _creature_… holds no right to be here."

Illyria tipped her chin back in challenge.

"Old One," the male addressed her directly. "Your boldness will lead you _nowhere_ in this realm."

"_She_," Angel began, stepping in front of Illyria, "is with me. No harm can come to her." He looked between the two meaningfully. "She has no quarrel with you or your Sister."

"That thing," the male began threateningly, "belongs in the Deeper Well. Where it should have stayed."

"Please," Angel turned his attention to the woman. "I'll vouch for her. She's on our side."

The woman studied him for a lingering moment before she turned to the man. He was about to go off on another declaration, but she stalled him with a wave of her hand. "Peace, Brother," she said, then nodded to Angel. "If Angel gives his word for it, I trust his cause. After all…" she looked briefly to Illyria, "it _has_ done good."

The male's frown deepened, but he cast away the issue with a similar wave of his hand. "Very well," he relinquished.

The woman looked to Angel pleasantly. "You may present your queries."

Angel shook his head. "I don't understand how you're alive. I watched you die."

"We are the equals of our former lives," the man explained. "Our force is theirs, and theirs, ours."

"That is not why you come, Champion," the woman said, a small bend to her golden lips. "_You_ are _here_… on account of your beating heart."

Angel studied her carefully. "I'm human," he said, if a little dubious on the matter.

"Yes." The male tilted his head.

"Again." Another smile from the woman, wider now. "Finally."

"Finally?" Angel shook his head, unable to comprehend whatever deeper meaning the riddle held.

"Why, because of the Prophecy," she explained, pausing for a moment and allowing the words to hang in the air. "Your destiny, Angel."

He felt a fluttering warmth in his chest at the notion, but he suppressed it with grim duty and confusion. "The Shanshu? But, I…" he shook his head, torn. "I signed it away," he confessed sadly—knowing that even if such a confession would take away his new found humanity, he could not lie.

The woman smiled. "A final test," she said, then laughed a little. "Did you _truly_ believe that a little guild of demons could deny you what the Powers deemed your very right? Your reward?"

Angel allowed the words to sink in—silent in thought. At last, he shook his head. "But why now?" he asked quietly. "After all this time…"

The woman chuckled. "Well… what a shoddy outcome that would have held," she mused. "If you had been granted your humanity straight after your closing fray, you would be an insignificant corpse still weighing down the pavement of that alley," she explained. "You required proper time to become well again—and to confront the consequences of your crusade." Here, she trailed off with sympathetic grief.

Angel remained quiet in her telling, staring at the intricate design of the stone floor beneath his feet—lovely and unmarred. Thereafter, he lingered without change, calm and still.

The woman tilted her head and smiled, eyes softening as she stepped closer to him and placed her hand comfortingly on his arm. "When you signed away the very thing you had been fighting for…" the woman's eyes glittered with pride, "in order to serve a greater purpose—you showed your _true_ worth as a Champion."

Angel felt the magnitude of her words rest on his now-beating heart. Even Illyria appeared uncharacteristically without speech as she observed the exchange with interest.

"An angel of darkness, you are no more." The female oracle shook her head, touching a cool hand to his cheek. "But an angel of _light_. You have earned this in every respect. You have earned your right to be called Man."

The moment hung, suspended. Even the man's lips lifted in a warming, charitable grin. Angel took that moment to bask in the blind gladness of it all, _feeling_ the breath of life in his lungs—rather than just instinctively allowing its cycle.

To his left, Illyria spoke. "But his strength belongs to an Immortal," she began quietly. "How is this possible?"

The male stepped forward. "He ingested the life-blood of the Liaison," was the simple explanation.

"His ancient power passed down to you. Said power was not connected to your vampirism. And so, it could not be taken from you," the woman added.

"Was this supposed to happen?" asked Angel.

"It was not a part of the Prophecy, no," the woman said, but then spread her hands slightly. "However, the event unfolded—and so it was meant to be."

"This was a gift without connection to the greater purpose," said the man.

"All ties to your former curse have been severed."

Angel had to agree. He breathed a laugh, still glowing despite his following recollection. "It sure felt like it. It was like being torn in every direction. Not that I'm complaining," he amended, heartfelt with it. "I'd do it all over again."

The woman's smile grew as wide and lovely as it had ever been. "Silly boy," she said. "You are _free_." This, she divulged with great feeling. "By _all_ accounts." She touched her hand to his cheek again, beaming. "Those were not your cries of pain, dear one. That was not you greeting death and torment." She shook her head of black curls, eyes deep with sentiment. "Those were the screams of Angelus."

**A/N: R&R, please and thank you!**


	14. Rewards

**Author's Note: **AND... without further ado!

Enjoy!

**Chapter XIV**

Angel felt ready to break down in front of both the prideful Oracles and the judgmental Old One at his side. As if he could not be granted any more joyful brilliance and complete gladness, the lady seer had had to mention that little piece of value.

Free of Angelus. Forever.

Angel allowed the words to sink in, eyes glittering with emotion.

That was better than being human.

"It seems I shall never meet him, then," Illyria mused aloud, breaking the moment. She'd had to admit—she was curious about the belligerent, though cheery, counterpart of Angel's psyche.

Angel laughed outright, eyes still glistening as he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, massaging it. Feeling one's heart alive and beating was one thing, but experiencing it lift with absolute delight until it couldn't possibly lift any farther was another thing entirely. However, there _was_ one more thing that he knew would push it over the edge and bring him perfect bliss. Without consequence. Thinking of said factor caused the heart in question to beat faster with anticipation.

"Your reward does not end here, Human," the man-seer notified, a hint of secret in his tone.

Angel looked to him in surprise. How could there possibly be more?

The lady-seer smiled, stepping around and coming closer to her brother. "Either way, in some manner or another, you will continue to serve the Powers."

Angel's brow drew together with lack of understanding. "Either way?"

"You have a choice," she told him. "You may choose to remain in the city—fighting for the weak and the helpless. Or…" she began to move closer to him. "You can choose to accept your final gift."

Angel considered her, trying to make sense of her slightly cryptic words. "What is the final gift?"

A gentle bend lifted the corners of her mouth. "A new life." She came before him, unblinking eyes staring up into his.

"Choose to be given a new life," the brother seer explained.

"It will not be a perfect life," the sister cautioned. "You will still be aiding those in need, but with purpose and duty. The Supernatural will be left to others able to fight. You will receive a new calling. In this life, you will have love." At this, she smiled warmly. "And you will gain what you have lost."

Even though it went unsaid, Angel somehow knew exactly what the seer spoke of. His eyes softened. "Connor," he said.

A slow nod. "His childhood. You will be given every moment of it. This life will suit you in every sense." A final smile appeared, spreading. "A Man's life."

Those three words struck a poignant chord within Angel's chest. Even through the pleasure of it all, his overwhelmed and exultant expression faltered. His eyes looked between the two seers. "How will this be carried out?"

"Memories shall be wiped clean. Even yours, on this account," the man-seer relayed. "With new life, comes new beginning. A clean slate."

Angel's face gently fell, brow drawing together. He closed his eyes briefly. Opening them, he looked to the sister for guidance. "What about her?" he asked.

Both oracles cast a glance at Illyria. "Destruction." The man-seer merely shrugged.

Illyria's bold stance faltered and she glared between the two, and then looked to Angel. Her emotionless mask held a fracture to it. Angel was about to protest.

"Brother," the lady-seer scolded. Turning her attention to Angel, she gave a sad smile. "She cannot follow you." Her eyes drifted to Illyria. "She will be allowed to carry out her existence—as long as it is a peaceful and harmless one."

Illyria turned her gaze wordlessly on the stone floor and did not look away after that. Angel, too, remained quiet—gaze set against the same stone.

"You are without decision," the sister observed, tilting her head to the side. "Have you a need to be shown?" Angel's eyes flickered to her at her words. "Pre-knowledge of the future? I can show you but a glimpse."

"You can show me," Angel repeated.

"If you wish it, I can show you," she confirmed, then reminded with caution: "but only a glimpse."

Angel hesitated, torn with indecision. On one hand, the insight could be dull and without significance. On the other, it could show him earthly paradise—making his choice that much more difficult. He mulled silently over his options for a hanging moment.

Illyria remained silent at his side.

He had to know.

Angel looked to the oracle at last, determined. "Show me," he said.

**A/N: R&R, please and thank you!**


	15. Solitude

**Author's Note: **Sorry that this is another shorty-chapter like the last one. But the following will be much longer.

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER XV**

Illyria waited less than patiently in the small-sized room of white stone. She was perfectly still on the exterior, but internally, she was at war. Several feet in front of and to her side was the brother oracle. He was equally stoic—only stood with his arms linked behind his back, watching Illyria occasionally with those unblinking orbs of his.

Illyria paid him no mind. She had more important things to dwell on. She'd watched as the female seer had stepped forward and touched her fingertips lightly against her companion's forehead. From each point they were connected, a radiant and pure light came to life—growing until the two were engulfed in it. It was too brilliant and extravagant to even give it the unworthy title of White. When the light had faded, Angel and the seer were gone.

And so… she'd waited.

Left behind.

She wasn't sure what she thought about that, but she was certain she didn't like it. It made her feel abandonned and cast aside and all those other bothersome emotions. She didn't wish to be inconvenienced any further by humanity's influence on her person. She'd been tainted by it enough--and she reviled the feel of it.

The notion of going on without direction or companionship left her feeling anxious and deserted. It made her chest ache in that way she was only just getting familiar with. She was unable to control it--it reigned over her every sense and thought, and she hated it. More importantly, as much as the very idea displeased her with maddening grace, she would miss him.

Illyria inwardly scoffed, but hugged herself tighter as she continued to wait.

_No, _she argued defiantly. _I'm upholding a stance of challenge and common defense._ Crossing her arms even tighter, she straightened her back, tipping her chin upwards--attempting to appear more imposing and indifferent than she felt.

She wanted him to return now.

Her large eyes glared ahead. They'd been gone for a good amount of time. The Old One wasn't certain how time turned in this realm, but she was certain she didn't care for waiting. She was quite adamant on the fact that she was repulsed more so now by the word than she had been before.

She withheld a sigh that was aching to be released, and, instead, sought to conjure up something to pass the time. She'd heard tales of counting sheep—which she thought absolutely ridiculous and pointless. Also, she wasn't certain she was matching the exercise with the correct dilemma.

Her jaw tightened. How was she to exist in this world when she knew so little of it? Loathed to admit it aloud—much less acknowledge the fact within herself—she needed to be taught. If she were to exist in solitude…

A premature loneliness swelled again in her cold heart.

What drivel. The great and prodigious Illyria--monarch of billions--needed no one. She was a single force that governed many, without mercy or care. She had lived seven lives at once and was the embodiment of true power. And now she was experiencing sentiments of a small child--pining after her only friend before he was even gone. Said companion was human, an even lower rank than the scanty vampire--of whom and what he'd been before. He'd declined severely in the chain of existence. He'd gone from 'muck' to 'food of muck'. And here she was: terrified of his growing potential absence in her life.

She was pulled from her thoughts as the room began to brighten. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the light expanded, filling the area with its radiance. Out of the brilliance appeared Angel and the seer—all the better and no worse for wear.

She watched his every move and paid careful attention to the expression he wore. To her disappointment, she could sense the warmth of his heart from where she stood. As he stepped forward slightly and away from the seer, a gentle look of content lifted his features. His smile graced even his eyes.

Illyria shifted, shuffling her feet slightly. "What did you see?" she asked half-heartedly, trying her very best to sound callous and failing outright miserably.

His face softened at her mention—he still appeared in a trance from it all. "Beautiful," was all he could think to say.

That simple explanation was her most elaborate heartbreak.

"Are you ready to exist within this new life?" the lady-seer asked, smiling and preparing to grant the Champion's final reward.

After a lengthy moment of silence, Angel finally faced her with a surprisingly troubled look. For a while, he was still and said nothing. As that time ended, his eyes filled with timid uncertainty. "Do you need my answer now?"

Both oracles were taken aback by the question, and exchanged perplexed glances with one another before finally turning their attention back on Angel. "You have not decided?" the man-seer questioned, incredulous.

"Is it possible to... could I have more time to think?" asked Angel, hesitant and faltering.

After overcoming the initial confusion, the lady-seer exchanged quiet words with her brother before turning back. She searched to find her voice. "Twenty-fours hours, then," she allocated. "You will be given this time to achieve your decision. Should you choose to accept the Powers' offer, return to us within the timeline given."

Angel took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, nodding once in gratitude.

"Take your primordial vestige, then, and be gone," the man-seer waved off. "You squander precious time."

Illyria shot a glare in his general direction while the lady-seer fixed him with another look.

Angel stepped closer to Illyria as they were prepared to be sent away.

"It is your future, human…" he heard the lady-seer's pleasant voice. He turned to witness her most brilliant smile that shone only through her interminable gaze. "Do with it as you please."

The room began to brighten at her voice—so much so that Angel found himself squinting. The room began to fade around them, and just as it reached its utmost brilliance, he heard her parting words whisper softly in his ear before darkness began to settle and they were gone from the realm.

_Goodbye, Angel._

**A/N: R&R, please and thank you!**

**Also - thank you bunches to the anonymous reviewers who I cannot reply to. I appreciate your kind thoughts and opinions just as much as everyone else's. Cookies for everyone!**

**_Numfar! Do the Dance of Joy!_**

**dances**


	16. Forgiven

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews, everyone!!! I promised this would be a long one, and here you are!

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER XVI**

_St. Michael's Chapel_

The two warriors entered the church somewhat unconsciously and moved down the main aisle at a gradual speed. Both their gazes remained on the floorboards beneath their trekking feet, but Angel's often drifted ahead, deep in thought.

Human.

He was human.

Not again. This wasn't another trick or element of false hope, nor a whim.

But _finally_.

His reward had come, at last. He wasn't entirely sure how to react.

Illyria hadn't spoken to him since they'd arrived back. Which is why it came as a surprise when her level voice cut through the silence. "How are… things?" she almost mumbled with utter lack of direction. Small talk was not a common knack among beings of the Deeper Well.

Angel heaved a heavy sigh, but remained lighthearted, for the most part. "Well," he began, "I'm feeling perfectly starved at the moment. So… sometime in the next hour or so, I intend to pay a visit to that gas station we passed, take care of the demon inside with an always effective burst of violence, and then proceed to raid the shelves for sandwiches and junk food," he explained as they continued down the aisle.

"What is a junk food?" Illyria questioned, turning her head to look at him.

"Only one of the greatest bad-for-you things this world has invented. One word: Cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip." Angel smiled at the notion, but after a moment, he squirmed slightly. "Actually," he said, "that's more like five, but… well, it's one thing."

"This particular 'junk' fare interests me," Illyria agreed quietly. "I think I may investigate its purpose with you when the time comes."

But Angel was barely listening. In fact, he'd stopped moving altogether.

Illyria hesitated in her step, glancing back. While they had reached the end of the aisle, Angel had not followed her to the side door that would lead to the dwelling below. Instead, he'd stilled and now stood gazing at the large crucifix that graced the back wall above the simple alter.

Illyria looked between the two briefly, but allowed her stare to mostly remain on the former-vampire. "Angel?"

He didn't reply. Instead, he continued to gaze, transfixed. His head tilted in his study, lips parted slightly and eyes full of something Illyria had never witnessed in him before. After another moment, Angel took a steady step up onto the alter and began to make his way to the large Christian symbol. As he came to stand before it, his eyes looked up into the face of its occupant.

His stare drifted downwards to the simple aged oak of its base. Slowly, his arm lifted, and his hand extended forward, fingers reaching out. Hesitating, he felt his breath catch timidly. Finally, though, his fingertips brushed against the smooth surface of the hanging cross, just beneath Christ's feet.

His heart leapt poignantly when he did not have to recoil to keep his flesh from burning. His eyes glistened and his face softened, spirit lifting. Illyria had come up behind him and stood there, still, now. She watched the event closely.

A beautiful moment. Illyria could appreciate that.

While Angel felt the welcomed emotion clinging to his lashes, she eyed the figure on the cross curiously. After a time, she voiced her thoughts. "This man is worshipped more than I?"

"Yes," Angel said softly, and his eyes flickered away for a moment, breaking his reverie partially. "Does it offend you?"

She continued to observe, her head tilting in thought. "I suppose it should," she mused distantly. "But strangely, it does not." She turned away from the cross and fixed her gaze on her companion, whose back was to her. "If this man can cause you to feel such passion—to feel so wholly loved…" Illyria shook her head, looking back to the man on the cross. "He must be very great." She stepped closer so that she was at Angel's side, still looking upon the entity before them. "Far greater than I." After a time, she looked away and allowed her eyes to settle on him once more. A slight bend lifted her lips as she observed him. "Your face is leaking, human."

Angel turned to her, smiling slightly before breathing a laugh. He sighed, wiping at his eyes before he turned full around and lowered himself down. Taking a seat on the floor, he leaned against the wall for support.

Illyria watched him from where she stood. "You know…" she began with an odd smile, "it displeases me to say that I can no longer call you by those demeaning monikers I'd come to favor." Her head tilted. "I shall have to call you by your name."

He looked up at her, offering her a crooked grin. He then bowed his head, giving half a laugh. "Yeah," he agreed. "That'll be weird."

Illyria continued to stand before him. "I forgive you," she pointed out, hands on her hips and feet spread apart, as if the exoneration was entirely her idea and she was the bigger person for it. "For costing me that priceless weapon of the ancient era," she explained further, and then tipped her head back imperiously. "But only if you obtain me a new one in the future."

Angel only chuckled, not looking away from the floor.

After a moment, Illyria came to hover beside him before she lowered herself to sit at his side. She inhaled deeply, eyes staring across the many aisles and pews before them. Silently, she allowed her gaze to fall downcast. "Angel?"

"Hm?"

"We are."

"What?" Angel turned to look at her.

"Friends." The word hung tenderly in the air. After a time, she bowed her head, a little ashamed. "I would like to deem us so." She looked back over to him, her eyes uncertain and vulnerable. "Are we?" she asked hesitantly. "Friends?"

A warm smile spread on his handsome face. "Yes," he said after a time. "You're my friend, Illyria."

Her face brightened at his words, even though she'd tried to conceal it immediately after the fact. Still, her gladness died away and she smiled sadly. "Still…" she began, looking back across the large space. "I shall be alone, then."

He watched her for a moment before he turned away, eyes looking out with hers. A peaceful bend lifted his lips. "I'm not going back to the Oracles," he said.

She faced him immediately. "You are not?"

"No."

"You would decline their munificent offering. Why?"

"What I was shown… it was…" Angel shook his head in remembrance, "it was the life I've always wanted, to a point. But I can't abandon these people here. It's practically Hell on Earth out there, and they need a Champion. I know the darkness and what lurks within it. Maybe one day I'll have that life. A life without monsters and mystical what-not. But I can see it's not today."

After a time, Illyria gave a shake of her head. "Selfless imbecile," she said.

He chuckled, bringing up a knee and resting his arm atop it. "It's a habit," he confessed. "But there's more to it than just that. Other reasons."

"Explain, then."

"Oh, no," Angel intoned, wagging a finger in her general direction. "Not this time, Dory."

Illyria frowned, glowering like a stubborn child who didn't get their way. "I don't see a possible disparity your telling could make."

"No, you're just trying to learn everything at once. You seek knowledge of the world, and you seek in on your own terms. Life doesn't work that way, Illyria. You have to let it come to you. It'll mean more that way, trust me."

Illyria watched him through narrowed eyes, sifting through his words. Finally, she seemed to loosen in her inflexible fronts—both metaphorically and physically. "Perhaps… you may have a point," she ceded reluctantly. "Fine. But I am no less provoked."

Angel grinned at her, turning back to look out across the large area before them.

-----------------

Illyria allowed her thoughts to travel, admiring a seam in her clothing and touching a hand to the suede jacket on her shoulders fondly. Devotion should never be kept secret, she reasoned. "The shell loved you once," she spoke into the stillness. She could feel his eyes glance at her. "Always," she amended. "But not in the same manner as in the beginning, when you met. She thought you a prince, in every way."

Angel listened quietly, gazing off. He recalled Fred's innocent adoration and fondness of himself. It had always made him smile. He loved her in return—but never in the way the young girl had hoped.

"You were her protector. Valiant and steadfast." Illyria tipped her chin back proudly. "You looked out for all your comrades, but never like you did for her. She was…" Illyria gave a slight shake of her head, a small lift to her lips, "simply Fred. And that was all you needed to know. She was Fred." Illyria leaned back more comfortably against the wall. "She was precious to everyone around her."

Angel smiled slightly in turn, eyes softening. "She had a quality," he agreed. "A sweetness." He chuckled then. "And that accent was cute as hell."

Illyria's smile broadened at his words, and she turned to study him. Soon, her eyes narrowed in her observation. "You know… many females, I've learned, have sought to give their hearts to you." Angel laughed, closing his eyes as his face scrunched a bit with endearing embarrassment. "I will confess," Illyria went on, overlooking him with careful scrutiny, "your facial structure is pleasant and appealing. And your frame is equally notable. Impressive, for a vampire or human. Taking both muscular definition and the width of your shoulders into consideration. I understand their interest."

Angel's expression had changed little, and he put a hand to his forehead, eyes closed in amusement. His 'widthy' shoulders shook briefly with mirth. "Thanks."

"You're more than welcome," Illyria granted, looking back ahead. "Simply an observation I thought to share."

Again, the two comrades sat in silence—enjoying the quiet and the reassuring company of the other. Illyria thought back on his words, and soon, her face fell, and she hung her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice soft and subdued.

Angel glanced at her. "For what?"

"I have never openly expressed grief over my actions—unknowing though they were. What I did…" she trailed off, gaze lowered and focused on her small hands. "What I did to her. To Fred. My existence destroyed who all held dear." Angel allowed her to speak her mind, his face calm. Illyria took a deep breath, raising her eyes to admire the lovely and intricate workings of the ceiling that hung high overhead. "I am glad Wesley abolished the Qua Hassan. He deserved a far worse demise than what he suffered." She bowed her head again. "And I suppose… so do I."

"Hey," Angel broke in softly, touching her shoulder gently with his. He waited until she'd look at him, but she never did, so he went on. "You've never apologized. And in return, no one's ever been given the chance to…"

"To what?" she looked at him, eyes cheerless.

"You said it yourself," He began, giving a shake of his head. "You didn't know. You couldn't have. You were just a being, trying to survive." His eyes rested on hers, encouraging. The moment held for a time. Then, he told her, "I forgive you."

Something within her melted. It was evident through her icy stare as her eyes began to shine with emotion. Relief. Pure relief and comfort were finally gained. She meant to speak, but closed her mouth looked away, sniffing. "We should divert to another topic," she said quickly. "Before my face begins that grieving ritual again."

Angel smiled, turning back ahead. "Good idea," he approved, getting comfortable again. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You know…" he began thoughtfully. "Even if… say I did choose to go back—get the Brady Bunch or whatever slapped on me… you wouldn't necessarily be alone. I mean… I was brought back once. And I know people who are really good at that raising of old friends and foes mojo." He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

Her brow was knit together in concentration, putting together what he divulged. "You mean to say… we could…"

"All I'm saying is—we got a big fight ahead of us. It'd be better if it wasn't two against the whole city. Granted, we're pretty strong, but…" Angel shrugged.

Illyria dwelled over the idea, a frown on her lips as she sat in deep thought. Angel was about to continue when she broke the quiet. "Not Wesley." He gave her an odd look, brow drawn in confusion. Illyria opened her mouth to speak, but it took some time before words began to form and come out. "He is…" she felt her eyes stinging yet again—without her permission. "He is with Fred," she said finally, voice soft with care. Her gaze stayed locked with Angel's. "I could not take him from her…" her voice caught here, "now that they are finally together."

Angel's eyes softened at her words, and a warm smile spread on his face. "Selfless," he accused finally.

After that, they sat in silence, both beneath the vast crucifix that seemed to reach out unto the world around it.

It was Illyria who finally broke the comforting quiet. "But… Spike…" she began.

"Huh," Angel grunted. "I'm surprised he hasn't shown up already," he groused comically. "Guy's like some kind of… I don't know—mutant cockroach." A slow smile began to spread on Illyria's face as he continued. "Must've run out of his forty-seventh life or something. I suppose we could give him a hand."

Illyria's steady gaze flashed rampantly, filled with running thoughts. "I suppose we should assist, yes," she agreed, then tilted her head in that odd manner she'd grown accustomed to. "You really are an amusing creature. I wonder, sometimes, why you wasted your moments in the shadows. In my time, I would have dressed you in the skin of a Jester and you would entertain my officials and I in the Great Temple, Vallahanesh."

Angel snorted. "I think you mean the _outfit_ of a Jester."

"No," Illyria shook her head, looking about in confusion. "No, I meant exactly his flesh."

Angel fixed her with a subtle horrified look of revulsion. "Oh, the good ol' days."

"Yes," Illyria agreed. "Still," she went on, relaxing back further, feeling comfortable. "There is a design set out before us. We each will play our role in it. There is more ahead than just mêlées and glorious battles of insensate odds. Though, I would not object if only violence lay ahead," she amended, just to set the record straight. Angel grinned at her side, still looking out. "Even though you chose to go without your simple life, you are still, now, a man. Your former restrictions have been vanquished. You have been bestowed a future. The augur pledged this."

"Mm." Angel continued to gaze off, face pensive and thoughtful.

"You spoke of deeper motives as to why you declined the great reward offered to you. Do you even know them? You have your entire existence before you." Illyria turned to study him, eyes thoughtful. "What will you do now?" she asked softly, curious where his journey would take them.

A growing quiet filled the air, settling around the two comrades.

Angel, former ensouled vampire extraordinaire—now able to live out in peace, and as a person, stared ahead. Gradually, his eyes took on a hopeful sort of warmth, glimmering with visions of promising future. His newly rejuvenated heart fluttered, and a smile like the sun slowly began to spread across his lips.

**A/N: Tada and Voila! I really hope you enjoyed that one, cuz I worked my butt off. Lol, no not really, but I tried very hard to make it work. It often goes from comical to heartbreaking, from reminiscing to tender. I really hope I succeeded, and please let me know how I did! Thanks**

**FYI: I'm SO SO SO SO sorry to say this, but I may not be able to update tomorrow, as planned. Don't worry, I'm not abandonning this story AT ALL. Wouldn't think of it. It's just--there's a couple chapters left, and I just REALLY want to put my all into them. Also, I haven't had any real time to work on this lately. Between my grandma having surgery (nothing too serious, she's fine), getting ready for hunting season, working on my other books, making trailers/vids, etc... I've had no time. **

**Well... my grandma's all well and fine now, I won't be going hunting again probably until the middle of the weak, I can break from writing my other books anytime I feel like it, and everything else... so...**

**Expect an update VERY soon. You can still check tomorrow night. I may be able to get the next one up. I should have some time after church tomorrow, no sweat. **

**:D**

**Thanks again everyone, for your wonderful words and compliments!!!**


	17. Heartcry: Together

**Author's Note: **SO SO SO sorry it took me so long to update this. I've been a busy little bee, and I didn't much have time to write on this. But, well, here's the next chapter! Only a couple left!!

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER XVII**

_**Outskirts of Sunnydale**_

Twice.

She'd washed that shirt twice.

Her expression unchanging from the hollow, empty mask she wore, Buffy tossed the old shirt once again into the laundry. Though her expression did well to hide her emotions, her eyes displayed them like an open book. They were weary pools of sadness—only barely rimmed in mournful scarlet.

She didn't remember the process of her routine; she'd gone through it in a sort of automatic pilot. Her hands and fingers carried on without her thoughts, looking to keep occupied. Folding the final pair of jeans and a sweater, she remained still, leaning her slight weight against the washer. Her eyes gazed down at the unremarkable article of clothing, fingers smoothing over the soft fabric.

She felt the brimming of warmth kiss her lashes, and didn't attempt to blink it away. It wouldn't have made a difference. Nothing seemed to make a difference, lately.

She closed her eyes, reaching into her pocket to retrieve what she'd since placed there. She hated keeping it in such an undeserving sanctuary as that, but she'd seen no alternative. She'd wanted to be close to it.

Withdrawing her hand, her fingers now held before her eyes the simple yet utterly beautiful ring. The encompassing hands, the crown, and the perfect little heart reflected their silver luster in her mirrored gaze.

Friendship. Loyalty. And love.

Its loveliness touched her spirit with promise. She sniffed, wiping away the tears on her face before she slipped the ring gently on her finger. From this day forward, she made it a promise in return—she would never remove it. Letting go wasn't an option. Too long had she been living her life, trying to forget him. Trying to move on. The harder she tried, and the harder her companions pressed for her to do so, the worse it stung. She was tired of being strong.

She placed her other hand over the ringed one gently, feeling its soothing coolness. The ache deep in her chest didn't lessen, though. She knew it in her heart that she couldn't survive without him.

She saw no future for herself, now.

All that flashed within her mind's eye was laundry, sobbing sessions in her room against a pillow, and the occasional bite to eat to keep up some semblance of appearance. Her stare fell downcast when she heard footsteps approaching behind her.

He stood for a time in silence before speaking. "You know, Dawn is rather delighted you're taking over her chores," Giles tried to sound cheerful, but wound up sounding just as bleak and half-hearted as he felt.

Buffy got back to folding, getting a little sloppy in her distracted sense of being. "Yeah," was all she said, muttering. Giles had strived just to hear the utterance.

They remained there for a time, embracing the silence before Giles spoke again. "Buffy, I don't want to preach at you. And I don't plan to." He waiting for her to acknowledge him, but she never did. Sighing, he went on. "I just wanted to know if there was anything we could do… that might help you to feel better."

Frustrated, Buffy seized the folded laundry and tossed it back into the dryer, unthinking. "I'll never be _better_."

Giles' face fell sadly, and he put his hands in his pockets, looking around the room for a time. Returning his attention back to the original slayer that stood before him, he showed her great sympathy. "I think that perhaps, maybe you'd like a bite to eat. Venture outdoors. Your friends are all planning to maybe take a trip to town. They're getting pizza, I believe. Wouldn't you like to join them?"

Buffy continued to repress, gaze steeled against the surface of the appliance. "No," she replied softly, "thank you."

Giles winced, closing his eyes. "Buffy, I just wish you'd allow us to help you. You don't have to be alone. You need—"

"What I need—" Buffy began emotionally, whirling around, "—is gone." There were tears in her eyes.

Giles' features softened at her young, heartbreaking expression. He began to apologize when they both heard the rapid footfalls of someone fast approaching. Their attention was snared as Willow burst into the room, stumbling and panting.

"Buffy!" she exclaimed, and apparently that's what it was going to be left at, for she spoke not another word. She only stared wide-eyed at the slayer, waiting for her to initiate the upcoming conversation with the obvious question.

"What is it, Will?" the girl in question asked quietly.

"I…" the young witch took a deep breath, trying to summon her voice. She appeared as if she'd drank an entire beaker full of pure coffee. "I think—maybe you should—Buffy, you need to come outside," the small redhead stammered, insistent and animated nonetheless. Her eyes were wide with revelation.

Buffy sighed, going back to the laundry. "I'm sorry, Willow. I really don't feel like going out."

"B-but—" Willow became frantic, trying to obscure her friend's concentration. "Believe me, you really should—"

"Willow," Buffy was upset now, weary with her loving friend's strange antics. "Please, I—"

"Buffy, go outside."

Giles' distracted voice cut through the air, firm and leaving very little room for objection. Buffy spun to face him, a little defiant and exasperated, when she saw the look on his face. He wasn't looking at her. His gaze was set, unmoving and stunned, past the clear friendly window before them, and into the outside world. Slowly, his hands pulled out of his pockets as he took one gradual step closer to the window.

Buffy began to question their evident disbelief and awe as she picked up the laundry basket, turning to see for herself what it was they were going on about.

The basket slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor at her feet, laundry spilling out in a wide arc.

-------------------

Slowly, her feet carried her forward, past the threshold of the home's quaint entrance, and into the sun. Her brow held a tentative furrow, and her lips parted with lack of understanding. The gentle breeze lifted a few errant strands of hair and brushed them across her cheeks lovingly.

Her following steps were careful, and lead her a small ways down the incline and onto the sidewalk. Here, she stilled, and stared.

Xander, Faith, and Dawn stood at the end of the short drive. With them was an odd-looking woman who closely resembled a walking blueberry popsicle with a leather wrapper. She appeared somewhat setback and observed more than she conversed.

But that was not who Buffy was staring so closely at.

She'd always thought his hair a stark black—dark as the night itself. But in the day, bathed in the light, it seemed more golden. She took another hesitant step forward, and caught her breath as he suddenly faced her—sensing her presence. It was a common bond. A shared gift. Even if she could never see him directly, she could always feel him.

His eyes were equally different, somehow. Not a pool of obsidian with limitless depths and untold secrets. Again, she found them more golden—eager, and full of life.

She heard Willow and Giles come up behind her, but paid them little mind. If they would have spoken, she wouldn't have replied. She'd have been unable to hear them—too distracted by the sight of him. A perfect vision.

A miracle.

She couldn't form a single thought. Too thunderstruck by the entire unfolding chain of events, she continued and remained speechless. Seeing him there, bathed in light… she felt new tears form with the beauty of it. He'd been darkly handsome and attractive before, but now… Her heart fluttered, lifting with warmth. Now, he shone like some sort of angelic deity, glowing with ethereal splendor.

Bewilderment ravaged her.

What did this mean?

But then, under the brilliant kiss of light, his eyes softened with care and utter devotion. And a smile like the sun spread across his face.

She gasped, a sob escaping her lips before her hand flew to her mouth. Without so much as another thought, a beaming smile lit up her own features, and she left her position eagerly behind.

She ran to him. She couldn't reach him fast enough. She laughed as she did so, rushing past any who came before him. He'd taken several strides forward to meet her the rest of the way.

Buffy Summers exposed the biggest smile yet that revealed all her teeth as she reached what she had so deeply longed for and what Fate had dared to deny her. She leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck as he caught her in his arms.

Their lips met in a kiss so divine, it shone brighter than any star and could very easily melt the very blackest heart.

Her angel.

His words from long ago echoed in her memories. _You still my girl?_

She'd smiled.

_Always._

**A/N: Tada! I hope you enjoyed that! I'll try to get the next chapter up sooner than I did this one. R&R, please and thank you!!!! **


	18. Rebellion

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the wait–but here's the next chapter!!

Now, before you enjoy...

I highly recommend you listen to this song while reading. I listened to it both while writing the previous chapter "Heartcry-Together" (which I added a bit at the end of, check it out) and this one "Rebellion".

It is the perfect "Theme Song" for this entire fic. Mostly the B/A aspect, but not entirely. It has an all-around tender feeling to it. Absolutely beautiful song/lovely artist.

The meaning behind it is that 'the gang', previously parted, have led separate lives--trying to push their old friends/lovers out of their memories. They have tried to go on with their own lives, hoping to forget. And now... they are finally reunited. This song is meant, again, mostly for B/A, but it reflects its meaning also in the entire family.

Please listen.

www . myspace . com / susan enan

Bring on the Wonder - by Susan Enan

_I can't see the stars anymore living here  
__Lets go to the hills where the outlines are clear  
Bring on the wonder  
Bring on the song  
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long  
I fell through the cracks at the end of our street  
Lets go to the beach, get the sand through our feet  
Bring on the wonder  
Bring on the song  
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long  
Bring on the wonder  
We got it all wrong  
We pushed you down deep in our souls for too long  
I dont have the time for a drink from the cup  
Let's rest for a while 'til our souls catch us up  
Bring on the wonder  
Bring on the song  
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long  
Bring on the wonder  
We got it all wrong  
We pushed you down deep in our souls, so hang on  
Bring on the wonder  
Bring on the song  
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long_

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER XVIII**

They sat in silence, overwhelmed by the comforting presence of the other. They faced, hand in hand, drinking in the sight—two joined souls, divided for too long. Together again.

A smile rose on her face, glimmering much like her gaze that had yet to pull away. "I feel like I should say something," she started, "but I wouldn't know where to begin."

His gaze warmed in return, his fingers intertwining gently with her own in comfort. "This is good," he smiled. "Just this."

A soft laugh whispered past her lips. "Yes," she had to agree. Then her face took on a funny look. "Although I'm feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, for some reason."

He chuckled with her, a knowing look in his eye. "It'll pass," he assured her.

She sniffed, then, blinking away emotion. "It all seems too good to be true," she confessed, tightening her hold on his hand tenderly. "I'm afraid that… if I let you go…"

Angel pulled her closer so that she came to sit at his side, relaxing against him and laying her head on his shoulder, her eyes looking up into his. He gave her a reassuring smile. "I have it on good authority that this is the real deal. You don't have to worry."

She nestled closer to him, comforted and pleased by his words. "Good." A comical frown tugged down at the corners of her mouth, then. "Cause I've said it before: no one messes with my boyfriend."

He laughed appreciatively, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close. Again, they basked in the quiet and the solace of the other's company. It was a time before Buffy's voice broke through. "Angel?"

"Hmm?" He'd come to rest his cheek against the softness of her hair.

"You never did tell me," she began, "what they showed you. The life you were offered. What was it?" she asked curiously.

"Well," he began, giving a slight shrug of his opposite shoulder. "It doesn't really matter."

Buffy smiled, reassuring him, and looked up at him. "You can tell me."

Angel allowed a partial grin. "It was close to the life I had before—minus all the grief and complications." This, he'd relayed with sarcastic appreciation. "I had a family much like the old team. I was saving people, still."

A sneaky smirk had formed on her face. "What were you, a cop?"

"Hardly," he said, looking down at her with an air of comic insult. The smile spread wider. "FBI."

"Mm." Buffy's eyebrows rose approvingly. Her gaze drifted elsewhere. "A life to be proud of, I'm sure. Purpose and meaningful." She'd said this sincerely, then looked back to study him closely, caringly. "What made you turn it down? You said it was perfect."

He turned away, eyes set against the floor. He gave a slow half-shake, half-nod of his head, sighing. "Almost." His voice seemed distant.

Buffy smiled knowingly, allowing his utterance settle in the air before continuing. "Let me guess—you know too much. This life you led before—you know what goes bump in the night, and you know how to help people this way." She touched his hand. "Not so different than how I felt after losing my powers that one time, I suppose."

He appeared to hesitate before he shook his head, closing his eyes. He turned to look at her meaningfully. "You weren't a part of it," he said.

Her smile faded at the weight of his words.

"A life without you, Buffy…" he shook his head again, eyes earnest and loving, "is no life I'd want."

When he watched the tears form in her eyes, he felt badly—not meaning to instigate such an effect. But when she then leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss on his lips and breathed a laugh against them, he knew she wasn't upset.

She pulled away, hugging him tightly, and he held her in return.

The reunion had been touching. He had forgotten just how much he'd missed them all. He'd received a warm embrace from Willow and Dawn, and an ecstatic one from Faith—who had given him a hard time about 'getting majorly whooped' by a 'big-ass gecko with wings'. They'd exchanged a cheerful laugh. Even Xander had thrown a comradely arm around him and gave him a few good thumps on the chest—a smile on his face. A handshake with Giles and an exchanged look had erased any former distrust. Even Illyria seemed to enjoy the exchange—earning many stares and questions on the side.

Tears had been shed. Everything was perfect now. The family was together again.

The young witch had wept openly—happy—and even Faith, who swore she was just allergic to mushy, girly moments, had gotten a little misty about the eyes.

Angel smiled freely in remembrance.

"Still," he began, smoothing his fingers over her hair. "Los Angeles is a cesspool. Like fifty-seven hell-mouths at once. It could use some champions."

Buffy grinned against him. "We've had some luck against ancient evil before. You think we could do some good?"

Angel smiled in agreement, staring off. "I think we could."

"Joined forces. I like it," she agreed. "I've got the Scoobies and the trusty slayer brigade. And you've got… Lady Blue Dominatrix, or whatever she is."

Angel laughed approvingly. "Something like that. And the way Xander was looking at her… I think he's crushing, to be honest."

"Well, he's always had a thing for ancient demonesses. Speaking of which," Buffy sat up so she could look at him. "Giles had said your little blue shadow's reputation is nothing to look past." Her face turned a little serious. "She's supposed to be one of the most corrupted, evil things to ever 'grace' this dimension. And a few others." She paused here, contemplating. "She's conquered planets."

A distant expression spread on his face, and he stared off, nodding once with a lopsided smile on his face. "She turned out all right."

The slayer's face softened. "She's your friend?"

"She saved my life. And she's more than proved herself." He finally looked at her, honest and assuring. "Yes."

Buffy smiled, nodding. "Then she's mine, too. I trust you."

His own spread wider, his eyes appreciative. "Thank you." She welcomed him through her gaze. "And… I've got someone else stationed there. I think he could be of some help." There was a twinkle in his eye.

Her brow furrowed. "Would I know him?"

He smiled. "You should," he said, nodding. "He's pretty strong. And a good fighter—like his Dad."

Recognition and appreciation dawned in her facial expression. "He'll make the team," she agreed, before her look turned thoughtful. "I have something of yours," she said, getting to her feet. "And, considering your lack of favored attire, I think you'd like it back." She looked at him over her shoulder as she moved a way, giving him a knowing look.

His brow furrowed, surprised. "What's that?"

She'd relocated herself to the other end of the room, pulling open a small closet and disappearing into it. She'd salvaged some of her things before Sunnydale had collapsed into itself. Angel waited patiently, though he was growing more curious by the moment—wondering what she could possibly be referring to. When she appeared again, he was unable to keep the grin of remembrance from his face.

She held up a man's black leather coat, a smile on her face. "I was… really cold one night," she began lamely, spinning a tale they both knew. "Some really good-looking guy was nice enough to lend me his coat."

Angel tried to force down the twitching at his lips. "He never asked for it back?"

"No, can you believe it?" Unable to suppress it any longer, her smile spread to show most of her teeth as she handed it to him. "And, for the record, Cryptic Wiseman… I think it looks better on _you_."

He chuckled, taking it from her and running his hand over its surface. It was like being reunited with a favorite car. Speaking of which, he dearly missed his. Ah, well.

However, as she'd handed it to him, he noticed the familiar band of silver wrapped lovingly around her finger, and it warmed his heart.

"You know," he began, clearing his throat. He set aside his returned coat and made room for her to sit next to him. She took up the invitation and got comfortable at his side, waiting for him to continue. "While we're there, I was thinking. There's this…" he trailed off, then turned to meet her stare, taking her hand in his, "beautiful little church," he said finally, a smile insufficiently hidden within his features. "It… hasn't been put to good use for some time," he said.

Realization was slowly dawning on her face, and the more she came to understand his words, the more her smile widened. So much so, that her eyes began to crinkle at the sides in an expression he found quite adorable.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat again and nodding. He gave a shrug. "I was just thinking."

"Right," she agreed, mirroring his shrug. "If we have time."

"Right."

Even though they played it off well, the deeper meaning and sincerity of the notion was altogether real. Both champions felt a building anticipation in their hearts at the idea, stomachs fluttering and tingling.

They both knew better than their lighthearted exchange. And they each knew of the other's knowledge towards the proposal.

The two champions shared a meaningful, passionate look.

It would happen. And not soon enough.

But, for the moment, there were other matters at hand. They had major plans and strategies to carry out and devise.

"So," Buffy began, squeezing his hand in mutual preparation and comfort. "Evil's taken over and set up shop in your town. And we're the rising challenger?"

A grin cracked the corner of his mouth. "I've waged a few wars in my day. Should be a walk in the park."

Buffy took in his words, allowing them to sink in before she nodded, a smile on her lips. "An angel rebellion," she almost breathed, rather awed by the picture the idea painted in her mind. "I seem to remember talks about such a thing." She faced him then with a crooked grin. "You know what happened last time the universe seen one of those, don't you?"

Angel grinned in return. "I seem to recall the story. However…" he said, "we won't be unleashing Hell against any Thrones." Here, he paused for effect, earning an eager grin from the woman at his side. "This time, we're with the Throne. We'll be sending Evil back where it came from. Where it belongs."

Buffy's eyes lit up with admiration of her heroic prince and meaning of their cause. Her smile grew as he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Together?"

"Together." He smiled.

Together at last, and for always.

**A/N: Tada! Had to give a little nod to 'Bones', lol. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon! R&R, please and thank you!**


	19. Closing Iliad

**Author's Note: **Well! Here we are! I don't think an introduction is necessary, do you?

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER XIX**

_Iliad to Illyria_

_Our mission is set. In two days—no more, possibly less—we eight shall set forth as one to the land of Los Angeles. Our leader, Angel, and his newly reunited enthusiast, Buffy Summers, have established possible reinforcements. While I know little of the brigade of warriors the original Slayer commands, I have witnessed them train. Their skills impress me. There is great potential in all of them. All of us. _

_Angel's support tends to incline towards erratic, single forces. I know very little of them as well, except for the boy whom I've encountered once before. _

_While my friend had, at the time, endeavored to veil the identity of his son, I had known all along. But I'd remained unspoken about the matter when first confronted by it. What was most curious was the younger one's blatant and rather intriguing attraction of myself. I have detected similar behavior in the human, whose name, I've learned, is Xander._

_I can only assume the two viable specimens of the male gender will hold a combative and alpha mêlée in my honor. The event would most certainly amuse me and provide much desired exploratory and clinical findings. The limit of what I could learn from such an experience is just exactly infinite._

_Such recreation, however, shall have to delay itself for a more appropriate time. The idea—the very concept of a rebellion, appeals to my more conquering temperament. Also, it holds a purpose within me, for which I cannot explain. When I ruled as god-king, I feared nothing—never did I flinch. But now… now, there is an apprehension in me that I find… bizarrely treasured. _

_When I greeted this world, it shuddered at my greatness and bowed to my every wish. After sealed away, and upon my return, that same, quivering world was not as I had left it. Now, beings fought for what they believed was just. They proclaimed a stand against their captors and tyrannous rulers. They were willing to perish because of their faith, and for their cause. We Old Ones: rulers, invaders, despots, tormenters, persecutors… we are no longer needed or favored in this new world. Because of our power, we are still greatly feared, but that only makes the inferior's stand all the more worthy. I can only be privileged to be a part of that now. Now, I serve. And will serve the one known as Angel—a unique being, strong and rife with honor—until my death comes. And if it is his that precedes mine, I shall honor his name and continue to wage war against the Iniquitous. For as long as They crawl, I shall do well to end them—without mercy and without a single flinch—at his side, and at the side of his comrades. _

_'And be __**nothing**__', I'd begged him, entirely lost and feeling vast grief over the loss of my former prominence and grace. _

_'And be what you __**are**__,' he'd urged me then, ardent with utter will and fervor, 'fighting to hold on to what you were… it's destroying you.' _

_Angel. I'd blamed him, then—despised him, even. I'd wished a thousand deaths and eons of torment and suffering upon him in that single moment. But now, I could only thank him. _

_Illyria, god-king of the Primordium… was dead. _

_That infernal being would remain sealed away forever in that suffocating sarcophagus, to rot. No longer would it walk worlds and dimensions as it pleased. _

_**She**__ walked only one world now. _

_A revelation from Fred's memory replayed itself in my mind over and over and over again, filling my chest with growing warmth. _

_'I walk with heroes.' _

Illyria smiled, tipping her chin back proudly; her blue eyes sparking with creed. Wesley would be proud of her. She was with the Angels, now. They would declare war against the Evil Ones.

_All his enemies believe he'd perished under the weight of their claws. _Illyria smirked. _I can hardly wait to behold the expression on their mewing faces. _

A final stand for righteousness and honor.

A Rebellion of Justice.

**TBC...**

And THAT, is where I am ending this tale that has been just as much an honor to write, as it was to hear all of your comments of praise and kindness. I hope to hear more of your thoughts soon! XD (hint hint) lol

Now, if this were Joss Whedon, everyone would wake up from the dream and be miserable again. haha. JK, I love Joss, but sometimes... grr. But no--no dreams this all happened. :-D

Please stick around. I will be posting two more installments that may hold interest to you. Be sure to check on them. I should get them up right after this one, but just in case.

Please R&R. Push the little button. He wants you to push him. It is his destiny.

(lol, that's not mine. A great Bones fanfic writer (can't remember who) always came up with hysterical forewords and closings in her chapters. That one had made me laugh for like a minute straight, off and on. It's the simple things in life that please me.)

(\/)  
(O.o)  
( oo) ...Bunny says review, please and thank yous. Look at him. So wide and fat.

Obey him. O.O


	20. FULL STORY

**Author's Note: **Just incase anyone wants the full story in one single file. Feel free. All I ask is that, if you post it somewhere, please credit me. Thank you! (btw, this version is edited with a few little snippets added and tweaked here and there)

**After the ****F****all**

Rise of the Fallen

**Chapter I**

After the fall

_**Outskirts of Sunnydale**_

"_What do you think we should do, Buffy?" Willow Rosenberg asked quietly, but eagerly._

"_Yeah," Faith seconded. "You're not the one and only Chosen anymore. Can live just like a person. How's that feel?" _

"_Yeah, Buffy…" Dawn began, looking to her sister. "What _are_ we gonna do now?" _

_Buffy Summers, former vampire slayer extraordinaire—now able to live in peace with whomever she chose, stared ahead, eyes glistening with hope and wonder._

_Then, staring out unto the vast crater, her heart fluttered, and a smile like the sun spread across her lips. _

_Only until after everyone else had begun their trek back to the bus did his name pass through her lips in a whispered promise._

Her heart felt as if it would rip itself from her chest. The world was silent, though it spun out of control around her. She remained utterly still, her jaw unhinged in a mask of heartache.

Her eyes stared at Giles unwaveringly, wide and in shock. Already, they were moist.

Within the distance, she heard his voice. She was no longer looking at him. Her gaze was set against nothing. She had to be empty; surely, her spirit had left her. For she could not comprehend a single thought. Yet there was a rushing in her ears, and she felt she would vomit.

"Buffy…" the former Watcher began; heartsick with the news he'd had to deliver to her.

Two simple rivers kissed their way down her cheeks.

_Oh, God._

She couldn't breathe. Her lungs refused to cooperate with her body's needs.

Willow stood nearby along with Xander, looking on pityingly. Willow's eyes welled for her friend before her and for the one who had perished.

She reached out to touch a hand to the slayer's shoulder in comfort, but hesitated when Buffy finally came back to earth and reality struck her.

She slowly sank to the floor, choking on a sob. She hugged herself tightly and began to weep.

Willow was about to go to her friend when Dawn knelt beside her. Without a word, she enveloped the slayer in her arms and held her.

Buffy clung to the younger girl, sobbing without restraint. _Not again… I can't lose him again!_

Faith looked on, unable to force back the burning behind her own brown gaze. Angel had meant the world to her, and she appreciated him for everything he had done for her, and what he'd sacrificed. But she also knew what he meant to Buffy, and the capacity of her devotion to him. More to the point: their devotion to each other.

Faith recalled when she'd fallen into her darkest hour—lost in madness and pain. Angel had been there for her. Getting through those times had stung without release.

So, she had found comfort in allies and friends, to help her through the pain. She had even found solace in Robin.

But now the first slayer's comforter was gone.

Faith couldn't begin to imagine the agony of such a thing.

Soon, the Chosen One's cries were swallowed again by the silence that followed.

* * *

_**Los Angeles**_

The air reeked of death.

Steam rose off the collection of rotting bodies that were littered throughout the alley, its mouth, and into the world around it. The downpour had ceased, but there remained a light mist of rain as the heavens wept upon the City of Angels.

Ogres, demons, and all manner of mystical and feared creatures lay strewn. There had been a massacre, a complete bloodbath, there in the alley.

What remained was jaw-dropping.

In the stillness, rain continued to cascade gently upon the corpses. A very light fog had gathered, blanketing the area like a veil of death.

And then, a leathered boot stepped forward.

It was followed by another, attached to a pair of slender legs. Through the fog, a lithe form moved amongst the slain. She was badly beaten, and was disgusted at the very premise. She vowed she would never get used to the fragility of the body she was inhabiting. Nevertheless, she moved among the bodies like a Queen.

Still… her body ached.

Illyria scoffed. _Such like a human._

She knew she would need to rest soon, however. But not until she found what she was looking for. Despite her denial and effort to suppress it, she felt concern creeping into her system. She had been searching for some time now, with no positive results.

Her never-resting mind sifted through information it had obtained in the past several hours, holding out for an indication of some sort. Suddenly, as if remembering to scratch an itch, her icy gaze donned recognition.

His voice echoed in her thoughts. _I'd kind of like to slay the dragon._

She came to a halt, her head tilting to the side in consideration. Her calculating eyes scanned the area around her.

Then she saw it, and without so much as a twitch of emotion, she made her way for it, taking no care in moving around the bodies, but rather over them like stepping stones.

Its massive bat-like wings had been rendered motionless and spread across the area around it, resting atop the solid ground, useless. Its leathery hide was covered thick with blood and injuries that no doubt meant it had come up against its match. Illyria felt a tugging at her lips birthed from snide satisfaction.

It soon faded though, for she did not see the creature's slaughterer anywhere in sight. She stood there for a moment, still in her thoughts.

_Surely, he cannot be dead._

For the second time that night, she felt a deep pain in her chest. This wouldn't do at all. For each person she had finally considered worthy of existence was disappearing around her faster than even she could comprehend. She remembered mocking the lower beings for their feelings of grief. Now… all of it didn't seem so funny.

A memory hit her. His voice echoed again. _And I'm next? _

Her brow knit together as she stared into nothing. She remembered what she'd said to him. _No, vampire. You were last. _

After him, there was no one left.

No one left to her.

A sudden wave of anger gripped her, and she decided she wished very much to tear the dead beast before her apart. She would clear this whole area out, she thought. Leave nothing left but innards and bones. No, that wouldn't do. She mused she would feel much better if she took matters further. She would snap the bones into bits of dust. Yes, that would help. And she would stamp on the guts until there was nothing left but a sticky paste.

Her rage cooled, finally, as she remembered the things Wesley had spoken regarding her temper. For some reason, she found she wished to please him, even in his absence.

Even though he was gone.

Still… she wished very much to wipe out every corpse so one could maybe see the earth beneath it once more. She paused in thought. Then, without so much as another, she gripped the beast near the base of its skull and began to drag it violently to the side. Almost agonizingly slowly, though she was quick to rid the beast of its current resting place, the familiar champion was revealed.

His motionless form reflected back in her eyes, which widened slightly in wonder. She felt another tugging at the corner's of her mouth. Satisfied with her epic discovery, she held a moment of self-triumph.

For epic it certainly was.

The vampire had been literally within the beasts jaws. Or at least partly, she could tell.

But then she took in his condition. If she wasn't familiar with how the vampire species met their fate, she would've guessed there was no chance of him being alive, or surviving, for that matter.

He seemed to be wearing the color red.

There was an array of gashes where the winged predator's jaws had taken him over his ribs. His shirt was in threads; his jacket torn and barely on his shoulders. A deep wound caused most likely by a set of claws traveled down his throat and over his chest.

Another intense cut had been inflicted across his brow and reached down his cheek partially, and another set of claw marks blemished the skin over the opposite cheekbone. Other than these major eyesores, he was riddled with the marks of several arrows, a broadsword or two, and bruises from a handful of straight out fist matches and bludgeons. Most of these injuries alone would have meant certain death to a mortal being.

She had never seen him look so weak. So vulnerable. Nor anyone, for that matter, who was still alive or undead. However, an approving grin cracked her mouth.

Despite everything, his right hand still gripped the handle of his sword.

Off in the distance, screams and roars of annihilation echoed. She would need to move him away from the area. Soon.

The City of Angels was getting swallowed into hell. It wouldn't do any good if its only angel went with it.

**Chapter II**

Remember

_**Wolfram & Hart**_

It was morning now. Thick double doors slammed open with thundering timbre, jerking violently off their hinges. Illyria stepped through the threshold with a very specific objective on her mind.

The former office building was in complete ruin. Any sane person wouldn't dare to even set foot in the edifice. What was left was hardly a stable environment. Pillars trembled and the floors moaned dangerously—what was left of them, anyways.

Illyria vehemently hoped there was an able path to the solitary office she was seeking. It would make her task easier, that she knew.

She paused in a lower level lobby, taking in her surroundings. The machine that traditionally transported bodies was no doubt useless to her. Her eyes flickered to the staircase.

It was a sight indeed. Barely ascendable.

_It will do._

Illyria was about to continue on when a soft whimper perked her heightened ears. Inwardly, she was aggravated. Outwardly, she still wore her trademark mask of ice-calm. Her head tilted to the side, curious anyways. Really, she didn't much care what sort of pathetic life form had made the sorry sound, but she decided that if it were a threat to her, she may as well just dispose of it now.

As she turned to investigate, her eyes came to rest on the small form of the former liaison, Eve. The girl looked nothing short of terrified, and tears had noticeably dried on her rosy cheeks—some new ones fresh in her eyes.

Illyria scowled. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Illyria…?" the young redhead began uncertainly.

"Brainless. Why would you remain in this mausoleum?" Not that she cared, but the foolishness of it baffled her.

"I… I'm waiting for Lindsey," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "I have nowhere else to go. Angel said he wasn't coming, but…" her large eyes turned desperate. "Do you know where he is?"

"If Angel's plan went accordingly, the Empath demon shot him through the heart," she notified emotionlessly. Illyria took no notice of the girl's hurt reaction. "More than once, I hope. I did not much like him."

Eve only stared incredulously, more fresh tears welling in her eyes. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head slightly. Blinking, new tears began to stream down her face. "Everyone is dead?"

"Yes."

Eve remained still near the lower level reception area. She stared into nothing, not even giving notice to the Old One's departure.

Illyria couldn't care a pinch if she lied, but it wasn't as if she had. Everyone was dead, in some form or another.

She just hoped the vampire wouldn't fall victim to the more permanent side of it.

It stung her.

Her large cold eyes now held a vulnerability that was not only rare, but nearly unfathomable.

His office was unchanged, aside from being in nigh complete ruin. Her astute and advanced mind, however, could rewind time and place the broken pieces back together, much like a puzzle.

She found she didn't much benefit from this, though. For seeing the office in perfect condition placed within her false hope that maybe, at any moment, he would walk in.

Hope.

She used to laugh at the word. Now she only turned her head in sadness from it. She let the mirage fall, and when she was greeted with the room's true face, her brow knit in uncertain sorrow. The disarray and chaos of it seemed to only seal his fate further. She needed to leave this place, and soon.

Moving forward, she attempted to blot out the surroundings and focus on her intent. She took hold of an edge of the desk that lay in shambles, and tossed it aside with ease.

Her targets remained there, as if waiting for her to find them. Stooping down, she gathered up all the hard-covered volumes that, not just by illusion, knew everything there was to know—or at least what was written of it.

She pulled the cover off of an antique compartment box, the lock snapping easily under her strength. Within the hold, she found a few documents, and what Fred's memories told her was a VHS tape. Curious, she took the tape along with the documents.

Her mission accomplished, she hoped to depart immediately. But something held her back. Turning her head towards a small closet that was no bigger than a locker, she hesitated. Shifting the books over to one arm, she stepped forward and gripped the handle, pulling it open. His essence filled her every senses in a rush that nearly hindered her thoughts.

Before her, protected by the closet door, hung his coat. It was much like the one he had worn the night previous; fawn-brown suede. This one was a little longer.

She didn't remember why she took it. She only remembered that she did, and then she had left. Perhaps it was to possess a piece of him. A memory of his existence, and what he meant to her.

No matter. She couldn't dwell on it.

She had a vampire to make healthy again.

…And thinking further of the human only made her chest sting worse.

**Chapter III**

Choice

_**St. Michael's Chapel**_

The old abandoned church had done nicely, Illyria thought to herself as she passed through the threshold, moving swiftly down the aisle. Ironic, if she dwelled further on the topic.

In her arms, she carried the mystical volumes and such, while on her shoulders: she wore the coat. She wasn't sure why she'd put it on. It was more of an experiment at first—she'd seen him do it a dozen times. More, even.

It did nothing for her physically. Yet, somehow, it brought her comfort. So, she had left it on. It also helped divert peoples' attention away from her in the busy streets. Not that she gave the gawkers a second glance, but it allowed her to be there and gone smoothly and without delay.

Not that it would have mattered today. It was so chaotic out there to begin with—what with the city falling apart around them—the terrified humans probably would have seen her as a relief of scenery. There were far worse-looking monsters out there than her. Appearance-wise only. She would never deny her power or insist her superiority over those simple creatures outdoors. The monsters, that is, of course.

Wesley had said she was a gaudy narcissist. She didn't disagree.

She was thinking about him again. That was never good. It distracted her from her tasks. When she could rest, she would think of him.

_Strange_, she mused. Since when did she care so much about saving a being lower than herself? She brushed the thought away, not giving much heed to it. Perhaps the former-Watcher was rubbing off on her. Not that he was much of an example to follow.

Or at least, that is what he claimed.

She was still thinking about him.

Illyria forced the thoughts away, moving to the back of the church, pushing open a small door that was out of the way of everything else. Stepping through, she began to descend a small set of stairs into the building's basement, where sunlight barely had a fighting chance to enter. There were only two small windows, which had been boarded up. A few errant rays leaked through, but they meant no harm to her company.

Stepping into the small space which could have resembled an apartment loft, were it overhead, she set the books and other paraphernalia on a nearby table.

The vampire had yet to wake. She had moved him towards the room's center and placed him onto an old sofa that Spike would have joked was older than she was. She hesitated.

_Spike…_

Closing her eyes briefly to clear her mind, she continued on. On a chair that sat beside the sofa, she'd placed what remained of her cleaning equipment and bandages. She'd removed what was left of his shirt and jacket, and had proceeded to clean his ugly wounds. She'd missed a particularly nasty laceration that was carved alongside his back, no doubt the result of a broadsword attack. That was when she had seen the tattoo. She'd smiled, then.

Not only was this creature the mighty champion vampire, Angel…

He was also Angelus. Bringer of destruction and torment.

Or at least, he had been. Illyria had always been suspicious towards the possibility, but she had never known for sure. She supposed she could have simply asked Wesley.

She remembered feasting her eyes on an old prophetic symbol of the tattoo in an ancient scroll the Old One's kept in their midst. It was remarkable, that one being could be two different people. Inside, there was both light and darkness.

It all settled on a choice one made.

She supposed that was what Wesley had been trying to teach her. She had been no better than Angelus—worse, even. Well… if Angelus had ruled the world, she supposed it could be a closer match.

But seeing the contrast between the pure darkness of the vampire, and the man he was today… it moved her. Reluctant though she was to admit it.

She came to stand over him and gently pulled back one of his bandages. A concerned frown graced her pale blue lips. He wasn't healing as he normally would. On average, the wound she currently examined should no doubt be nearly healed by now. All of them would have been, she guessed.

But all of them at once…

Her eyes came to rest on his face. His skin was paler than she could ever remember it having been. It was almost a pasty white. Like porcelain. Watching his face for a moment, she was sure to have seen a brief flutter beneath his eyelids, but then on—nothing. She removed one of her gloves and touched a hand to his cheek.

Ice.

She didn't like that at all.

The two blankets she'd covered him with didn't appear to be doing a spot of good. Well, this was why she brought help. Replacing her glove, she turned her attention to the books that rested on the table nearby.

**Chapter IV**

Silent company

"You aren't very pleasant company," Illyria mused aloud into the silence of the church's basement.

The sleeping vampire did not respond.

Not that she expected him to. Obviously, she had done something improperly for him to not be healing as he should. Or, perhaps he was just that weak. He couldn't have been able to drink anything lately, either. That was her current dilemma. If he wasn't awake, surely he could not drink. And maybe that was why he was still so weak. Perhaps he needed blood in order to heal properly. That was why she needed to quickly find a solution to aid him more swiftly along in his recovery.

Presently, she was seated in the large armchair that was located next to the sofa. It had been rather comfortable, she'd realized, as she had taken up the seat.

She still wore his coat. And, currently, she was searching within his books for a solution for her patient.

"I enjoy this," she spoke into the air. While the vampire was unable to respond in his current state, she could appreciate his presence, all the same. "I have missed the song of the Green." Her mind wandered for a moment. "Not your demon-clown, that is to say. Though I do wonder where he's gone." Her head tilted. "Why I wonder, I cannot be certain." She cast a glance in his direction briefly, watching over him, before turning back to the volume in her hand. She traced her fingers delicately over the paper surface. "While these leaves do not sing to me, they have a life all their own. And they listen impressively. To every word I say." She really did miss her gift to hear the plants' voice rise in chorus and lullaby. No matter. Some things were left in the past, and left behind.

One needed to move forward, she supposed.

"It's twilight again, now," she spoke quietly as her astute eyes scanned over the pages. "If you were cognizant, I'm sure you'd be pleased." She took her eyes away from the book in her hands and focused once again on him. "I wonder if you miss anything from the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. You spoke of how you detested what the structure had done to you. How it changed you. But it intrigues me: do you miss nothing from your former home?" Her attention returned to the book. "I expect you'd miss the windows. My knowledge has it that your kind bursts into perfect flame while under the kiss of sunlight. The solid veils of your transoms prevented this." Her eyes pulled away again and rested on the small windows above their heads and off to the side, boarded up. "I may be able to replicate this. With Fred's memories of your sciences and the knowledge of these books, perhaps you could have the same here, in your new home. I think you'd be pleased. After I've learned how to restore you, I will investigate further."

She did not witness a change in his features to show emotion, but no matter. She was sure it would please him.

"I wish I knew where to search in these texts. But it appears that I don't precisely know what to look for." As soon as she'd spoken the words, a memory hit her. She remembered when she'd had a particularly nasty cut along her neckline, and how Wesley had seen to it with his magics and knowledge of doctoring. "Oh. Now I have it," she said casually. She spoke to the book of healing herbs and roots, magic powders, and the species of the vampire.

After a moment of scanning the information it gave her, she was ready.

She tilted her head. "It seems I am to go out again," she informed curtly, rising to her feet. "Don't be concerned, though. I plan to return. Soon. These ingredients should not be too challenging to obtain."

She was, after all: Illyria, former god-king of the world. What possible deviant soul or being could stand in her way?

The double doors to the church entrance slammed open, Illyria stalking through with a scowl on her face.

_Flotsam, _she thought with a bitter taste, _jetsam, and all things envious and dank. _

The Old One was not in the most charitable of moods.

She huffed as she descended the steps in the back with a vain tilt of her head. As she reached the bottom she began a most convincing speech for her efforts. "You'd do well to appreciate this, half-breed. This was no pleasant errand." She gave his unconscious form a pointed glance. "I had to obtain the mucus from the flesh of a chaos demon. Spike told me about an encounter he once had with one of their breed." She came to a standstill in the center of the room, about six feet away from the sofa. "And while _his_ tale verged on amusing, I can assure you, my chaos demon was far more hostile than the accused that had been osculating with his former lover." She paused only to glare expectantly at the vampire before her.

Briefly satisfied, she continued on with her rant.

"Even further still—were you aware that one of your kind requested I scream for it? I killed him without a glance. He provoked me. I presumed you'd understand."

She released a breath, pleased that she had gotten everything out that she'd wanted to say.

She set all her findings on the small table nearby.

"However, on more pleasing grounds… I believe I've chosen a suitable haven to house you in," she informed proudly with self-praise. "None of your kind, as well as other demons, appears to even consider the idea of following me across its threshold. You should be very safe here for some time, still."

She gestured briefly to the items she had collected within an impressively short time slate.

"Once I unite these elements into the specified dosage, the result should effectively return you to your normal state."

With that, she got to work. She didn't mind that the vampire couldn't speak in return. She'd seen Wesley often talk to himself, and it appeared to have aided him in his work. She hoped it would yield the same results for herself.

**Chapter V**

In a whisper

_**American Airlines**_

_**Flight 23**_

Nina watched with a smile on her face as her young niece colored her a picture in the seat beside her. Her sister had gone to the bathroom. Nina was about to compliment the girl when something on the small television screen above caught her eye.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight produced from the electronic device. Los Angeles was a chaotic battleground. The cameraman in charge was a bit unsteady in his capturing, but Nina wished he'd been a little more.

She didn't want to see this.

Factories and small stores roared with flame, and monsters terrorized the streets. People ran and screamed for their lives, scattering like terrorized prey.

Her brow arched in sadness and worry. She hoped Angel was alright. He'd sent her away from the city, and now she knew why. Someone had to take care of her family.

She felt a burning in her gaze, and bit on her lower lip slightly, turning her eyes away from the monitor. Reaching over her, she put a comforting arm around her niece's small shoulders.

"It's beautiful," she said of the colorful portrait.

One way or another, she knew she would never see the vampire hero again.

* * *

_**Los Angeles**_

_**Day Two**_

_**Late Afternoon**_

Illyria was in need of serious activity.

Or at least, that was what she had been thinking before her charge began to stir under the newly applied bandages and potions she'd changed the night previous. His quiet moan had nearly startled her out of her skin. With him out of commission for the past twenty-four hours or so, the church's basement had been silent like the grave.

At first, she wasn't sure how to go about the occurrence. She had been seated in the comfortable armchair and merely stared at him for a good while. Finally, she'd risen and come to stand over him.

As she watched him now, there was little change. A frown marked his brown, and he turned his head to the side once, moaning again almost silently, as if caught in a fever dream.

Blood! She needed to fetch him a body to feast on. That would help him to wake. As soon as the thought filled her mind, she knew there was something unsuitable about it. When he did wake up, he would certainly reprimand her for having him feed off some poor innocent—slain or otherwise. That is what he would say. _She_ didn't mind in the least. Innocent, poor, or what have you… a corpse was a corpse. Nevertheless, he would never forgive her. What's more, he would never see himself in her debt or seek to repay her were he angry with her.

She paused in thought, her large eyes calculating.

Before long, she had a solution. And while he might still be repulsed by it, he would not be so upset this way.

_Hah_, she thought. Repulsed—him. She was the one who would be allocating the ancient and pure blood of an Old One's veins. Or, at least, the shell which housed the veins. Truthfully, she didn't find herself minding all that much. After all, it would no doubt save him, and save him more quickly.

And if Illyria was anything, she was swift in her dealings. Whether it be giving life, or taking it away.

She moved away from him briefly, and took hold of small blade in the growing pile of weapons she'd been collecting. Reaching up, she began to cut a small line down one of the seams of the fabric covering her forearm. It could be mended later, if she decided to. Physically or mystically.

That done, she then drew the blade across her skin, her face devoid of emotion. A small line of dark crimson sprung up after a brief pause. Casting the blade aside, she came back to once again stand over the vampire. Lowering herself to a kneel beside the couch, with one hand, she propped up his head as gently as she could. He stirred under her touch, brow furrowing slightly. Illyria brought her other arm forward, just before his lips.

He seemed to immediately react to the scent of liquid life, she could tell, but he made no move for it. Despite herself, she felt a small tug at her lips. He had done well to learn control over his years with a soul. Or… he was just too disoriented to act on the offer. She couldn't be sure.

She spoke quietly to him, trying to encourage him. "Drink now, half-breed," she told him soothingly. "The battle is over."

At first, there was a hesitation. Suddenly, though, she felt a hand at her wrist, his fingers barely grazing below the back of her hand before his lips were on her skin.

As he drank, she could feel him trembling where his hand covered her wrist. He was still terribly weak, she could see as he struggled to keep his arm up. His strength did not last long, for after another moment, he sank away from her and back into the sofa, his hand slipping away from hers.

Illyria tilted her head, studying him closely. She had hoped his eyes would open. She also hoped that had been enough. If it wasn't, she would just give him more until it was. She was about to get to her feet when she heard him say something. He had spoken the word so faintly, she'd almost had to read his lips to understand.

_Buffy_, he had said.

She wasn't sure what the word meant. It seemed familiar to her ears, but she couldn't be certain. Knowing it had to be important, she began to search deep within Fred's memories to see if she could locate its meaning.

As it turned out, she did not have to search far.

"Buffy" was a regular and most commonly known word in the _Angel Investigations_ vocabulary.

"You call out, hoping for your true love to answer," Illyria said to him, tracing her fingers barely over his brow, distracted by her own mesmeric thoughts. Then, her large blue eyes fell downcast, growing saddened. "As do I."

**Chapter VI**

Awakening

_**Outskirts of Sunnydale**_

Giles wasn't sure how long he had been seated outside the room. He'd been staring at the wall opposite him, trying to find something to count or analyze on the perfect smooth surface. He felt himself inwardly start as the door beside him opened and Willow quietly stepped out.

"How is she?" he asked immediately with genuine concern.

The weeping had ceased, he knew, but the last time he'd checked on her, the slayer only remained in her bed, silent and staring off into nothing. There were always moist rivers, fresh on her skin, and Giles wished he could do something to comfort her.

"Dawn's staying with her now. No change since you last saw her," Willow said quietly. "But I did get her to talk a little."

"I did hear a few things," Giles agreed, but then his face fell slightly. "It sounded as if she was crying again."

Willow nodded once, looking heartsick herself. "You know what she's feeling, don't you?"

Giles released a heavy sigh. "Besides the obvious, she also no doubt blames herself."

"Completely." Willow shook her head sadly, looking ready to shed a tear herself. "Giles… she's so broken over this."

"What did she say?"

"She wasn't there for him when he needed her most. He had the world crushing down on him there, with Hell on all sides. And she wasn't there to help him fight." Willow breathed a sigh, her shoulders wilting as she sunk to the floor and used the wall to lean on. "There was something else, too…"

Giles took to staring at the carpet now. "What's that?"

Willow searched for the words. "She didn't say anything about it, but I know it's on her mind. She _won't_ say anything because she cares too much."

"About who?"

"You, Giles." At his confused expression, Willow went on. "Angel contacted you a few months ago. One of his friends was dying."

Giles' face fell even more, closing his eyes; he put a hand over his face. "I turned him away."

"That's what I'm saying!" Willow huffed helplessly. "It wasn't just her, Giles, it was all of us. In one way or another. How did this happen? He was our friend—why didn't we…" She shook her head, tears springing into her eyes. "He was _my_ friend…"

Giles looked down at the young woman in tears next to him. He laid a hand on her shoulder consolingly.

"He was always there for us. It didn't matter why."

"He was a good man," Xander was suddenly above them, coming around the hallway. "That's what matters." Willow and Giles looked up. "I never really liked him... and I never pretended to," Xander smiled slightly, his eyes softening. "But that never stopped him."

Despite the sadness all around, Willow breathed a small laugh. "Helping the helpless."

"And I honor him for that," Xander clearly agreed, then turned his attention to the closed door before them. "Look…" his head bowed sadly. "We all cared about him in some way…" his eyes met again with the two, going between each of them. "But no one loved Angel like Buffy did."

No one spoke up in disagreement.

"Look, Will… I'm taking patrol tonight. I'll take Faith with me." His face softened meaningfully. "Stay with Buffy."

Willow gave a small nod, sniffing.

Giles nodded in return. "And I'll do whatever it is I do."

Xander, feeling the need to finish it off, also nodded. "We'll get through this," he said quietly. "More importantly, we'll get her through this."

The brief quiet that followed was moving, and all knew the coming days would be difficult.

"We will," agreed Willow softly. Gazing at the wall, she could see the temporary comfort Giles saw in it. "Still… it's so hard to imagine him being gone."

* * *

_**Los Angeles**_

Dark brown eyes fluttered open softly.

At first, the brightness of the room seemed too overwhelming, for they narrowed slightly before opening fully. His chest felt as if a large weight was pressing down, holding him still. The fog in his mind was still clearing, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened, or where he was, exactly.

All he could see was an old wooden ceiling, caked in a small layer of dust. It was night, he could sense.

Was he dead? Officially, that is.

The last thing he remembered was the rain pouring down, the smell of blood and destruction, the screams and roars, and driving his sword through the skull of the dragon, just as its jaws closed around him…

Angel tried to sit up, but the weight on his chest prevented him. He knew nothing physical was holding him down, but rather he was just as sore as the day was long. Or night, in his case. Mustering all his strength, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His brow furrowed. It looked as if he was on a sofa.

Yes, most definitely a sofa.

If this was Hell, it was most certainly different than the last one he'd been to. Looking down before him, he noticed the many bandages scattered amongst his form. Reaching carefully, he began to pull one back to inspect the damage. What he saw surprised him. Whatever grisly wound had been inflicted, it was healed over fully now. All that remained was a nasty-looking scar, which, in time, would also go away. He imagined all the other wounds would look the same.

When his senses began to finally come back to him in fuller awareness, he felt immediately that he was not alone. Turning his head, he inwardly started at the sudden sight of her.

She was seated not six feet away or so in an arm chair, silent, and staring off at something. A nail sticking from the wall? He couldn't be sure. Maybe she was counting air molecules again.

His brow drew together in uncertainty. Did she know he was awake?

_What is she doing? _He thought incredulously, and a little cautiously.

He decided he may as well try to get her attention. "Illyria..."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Now, he was just getting creeped.

"Illyria?"

Suddenly, with a flutter of her eyelids, she seemed to come from a trance. She turned to look at him. "I was sleeping, vampire. I did not hear you the first."

Angel paused. That was definitely creepier than the staring. He now knew why Wesley could never tell when she was asleep.

Almost immediately, though, something dawned in her icy gaze. "Oh," she said. "You are awake." She looked… almost… pleased.

Angel didn't know what to think. "You…" he cleared his throat, annoyed at the weakness of his own voice, "you survived." It was almost a question.

The modest gladness vanished, and her eyes flashed with irritation. "Of course I survived," she snapped, as if he made some great offense. Which, to her, he did.

He searched for something to say, but found himself equally drawing a blank in that department as well. He had opened his mouth to speak, but now closed it awkwardly.

To his surprise, her features softened. "Your appearance has improved since I brought you here. Before, you were the embodiment of Death, itself." As if he couldn't become even more lost, her following question shocked him. "How do you feel?"

He could only stare at her. What had happened, exactly? And why was _she_ giving a flying _anything_ towards his personal health?

Her head tilted in that strange manner of hers. Unblinking, she asked, "Have you swallowed your tongue? Speak."

Finally coming out of his state of confusion, somewhat, he cleared his throat. "I-I'm sorry, I…" The unsteadiness of his voice frustrated him. And he wasn't about to tell the former-conquering demoness that if he tried to stand, he would most likely fall down without making it two feet. He still felt in a haze.

Then, without warning, the idea of a person swallowing their own tongue—not to mention the imagery of it—struck him. And, he didn't know what else to do, so he started to laugh, his throat and voice hoarse from inactivity. He hadn't thought he would live past the battle in the alley.

The look on her face was also amusing. Her brow knit together, her features scrunching slightly, and her head tilted once more. "What could you find so amusing? I was concerned you would sleep forever. You've been comatose for more than forty-eight hours."

The laughing had taken some energy out of him, so he sunk back into the cushions of the sofa. It drained him so much, he almost thought she'd said she'd been concerned.

Still… two days. "How did I get here?" he asked. "And where is 'here'?" He thought they were rather simple questions.

She seemed to think so, too, for she answered them just as simply as one could. "We are in the crypt of a derelict minster. I brought you here."

A church? No wonder he was feeling a little… unwelcome. It didn't bother him to be in such a place, and he could no doubt overcome the mystical discomfort. That wasn't what he was questioning. "These wounds looked pretty bad…"

"You were also nearly consumed by a winged lizard. Your condition was critical."

"Therein lies the point," Angel agreed. "How did I…?"

"After I brought you here, I returned to the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. I obtained those magic tomes and attained instruction from them. Also, you needed blood, so I lent you some of mine."

"What?"

"The trouble was none. Worry not, I have plenty more."

He made a face, slightly uncomfortable with the idea, but didn't press it. She'd saved him, no doubt. He should be grateful. And he was. No matter how disturbed, otherwise. But then, his face lost all trace of humor that remained, and he turned his head to face her soberly, knowing the question needed to be asked. "What happened, Illyria?"

Her face softened slightly, and she looked away—her attention falling on an errant thread or something amiss on the chair's arm. "I… I'm uncertain. I do not know whether to say we won, or to say we lost. If winning is to say all of our enemies that night suffered an ugly demise, then we can truly triumph, I suppose."

A grin cracked the corner of Angel's lips. "Conquering all, no quarter given… isn't that what you said?"

"That is winning," Illyria agreed softly. Her head bowed. "But I do not feel like a champion."

"Welcome to the club," Angel said sympathetically. "We rarely do. But people keep accusing us of bearing the title, so I guess there must be truth in it."

"Truth," Illyria spoke the word as if she was unsure whether to trust it.

_Lie to me… _his voice whispered in her thoughts.

Seeming to notice for the first time, Angel asked, "Why are you wearing that coat?" The familiarity of it was not lost on the vampire.

Illyria hesitated, a rare vulnerability in her eyes. "I…" she lowered her gaze to take in the sight of it on her form. Gently, she touched a gloved hand to the fabric. "It is warm, and I do not need it." Her face had grown masked again, stern and almost unbreakable. But there was a single fracture in it, nevertheless. "But yet, I wear it."

"It belonged to Wesley," Angel said caringly.

Illyria found she could not take her eyes off the comforting suede. "And shall always."

Something in the Old One had changed since her first arrival. That much was obvious. But something had changed since the night of their final stand against Wolfram and Hart as well. Softly, Angel asked again: "Illyria, what happened that night?"

Her eyes flickered to hold his gaze. For a moment, there was silence between them. Then, Illyria released a very human-like sigh, her eyes drifting away. "We will speak of it at another time, half-breed. You need your rest."

Angel closed his eyes, irritated at her stalling, but knowing that perhaps it was for the best. He wasn't ready to hear it.

He wasn't ready for Truth.

And by the sinking in his chest and the sick feeling within him, he didn't think he ever would be _ready_ for it. He wasn't blind to the fact that he and the usually insufferable Old One were the only two in the "decrepit minster". He could attest to the knowledge of such a thing by the burning he was beginning to feel behind his eyes.

"I will retrieve more blood for you in the morning," she said—just so he would know.

He relaxed back into the sofa once more. Allowing darkness to sweep over his vision, he heard Illyria's voice through the quiet of the room.

"You said her name. In your sleep, you spoke of her."

Angel opened his eyes.

"It seems to be a common inclination among those who feel human emotion."

He was going to ask which name he'd said, but he already knew. Instead, he said, "Thank you, Illyria."

He turned his head to witness her features take on a form unlike he'd ever seen. He didn't think anyone had ever thanked her with such honesty or gratefulness. Then again, he didn't imagine she'd ever given anyone a reason to. She was definitely changing. Maybe even becoming a person. In some manner or another.

Then, to his great surprise, something incredibly extraordinary happened to her face.

She smiled.

"I am glad you are awake."

**Chapter VII**

Healing gifts

_**Day Six**_

_**Late Morning**_

Moving around had become no problem for him now. His strength was returning impressively, though he still felt a little shaky on occasion. He was sure that would go away soon, and he'd be back to his old monster-slaying self in no time. After all, he didn't think this was near as bad as the time he'd been to Hell and back. Thinking of the torment that lasted more than a century, it certainly put a few sword wounds and nasty bite marks into perspective.

He didn't know where she'd wandered off to. When he'd woken up, she'd been gone. He wasn't worried. She'd usually drift back and forth. She'd explained the cause for her comings and goings once to him, but she did so in such a complicated speech pattern, he'd simply skimmed the cliff notes and nodded.

It had something to do with being trapped in a box with him. On occasion, she remembered that she wasn't supposed to like him, and she'd throw out a rude comment or insult.

It didn't bother him in the least. More than anything, he found it amused him. Her metaphors and name-calling were often well thought out and inventive. And while some verged on a more vulgar plain, his favorite had to be "carnivorous leech" or "sulker of shadows". Despite the accuracy, neither had meant to be endearing at the time. He'd laughed, which had only upset her further. She didn't speak to him then for the rest of the night.

Currently, he was trying to sort through all the weapons she had been collecting from her trips to the outside world. Some, he didn't even recognize, or know how to use them. He figured he'd let those ones alone. With his luck, they'd eject airborne stakes or spray him with water which wasn't entirely unblessed.

His wardrobe was somewhat complete, now, he was happy to say. A long-sleeved dark shirt hung loosely on his form, a gift from Illyria. She'd pulled it off a corpse, he imagined, so it had to be washed before wear. She still had much to learn about this world.

He'd thanked her for it, surprised by her good will, before she proved she was not to be dubbed a saint so quickly. She'd told him she had sized him up from the moment they met, so her 'shopping' had not taken long. Her moods were often hot and cold with him. Well… slightly under lukewarm and cold.

Deciding to leave the weapons alone, he took up one of the ancient volumes for reading material and headed for the armchair. Collapsing into it, he reached over and dragged a small bench over to him, placing his feet up. He opened the text, speaking an old favorite of his into it, and relaxed back into the cushions.

He heard her coming about a minute before she reached the bottom of the steps. She glared at him as she entered. He didn't look up from his reading, but he could tell she was in a mood. A brief smile ghosted across his lips.

"Your kind is pond scum," she told him, moving across the room, "are you aware of this?"

Trying to hide his smirk, he flipped the page, not taking his attention away. "Well aware," he agreed.

"Will you not give me full concentration when I speak?" she demanded vehemently.

He looked up from his book. "I'm sorry," he amended amicably, "what happened?"

"I found a nest. Your kind _nests_—like vermin," she told him as if the very idea was appalling. "I decided to kill them. It was an effortless task." Here, she went into an incredibly descriptive tirade about just how exactly she disposed of them. "But then," she went on with great feeling, "one of them made off with my new Bavarian ax. He fled like a coward, disappearing into the sewers. _My_ weapon, he took."

"That's terrible," Angel agreed calmly.

"Horrendous. If ever I find him again, I'll gut him like I would swine. I'll place his entrails on display as an example," she avowed angrily.

Angel grimaced. "Not around here, I hope. The smell would get sort of unbearable."

Illyria seemed to consider this. "Then I shall strangulate him with his own intestines." Her head tipped back imperiously.

Angel made a face. "Mm," he shook his head. "I'm afraid that wouldn't work, either. You can't strangle us. We don't need oxygen. Maybe a simple stake to the heart would be best."

Illyria scoffed, her eyes flashing with irritation. "Your breed aggravates me."

"I know. Can't really get too creative with us, can you?"

She huffed a sigh. "It matters not, I suppose. Besides, I am too great a being to waste my time pursuing such an undignified and wretched creature as he."

Angel cleared his throat a little loudly, getting back to his book.

"Here," he heard her say, and he looked up as she pulled a bundle from her coat, tossing it at him. He caught it. "I took it off one of them. I figured you would object less were it stolen from one of your own kind, than another corpse."

He unfolded it to see a long-sleeved button-up over-shirt. It was exceedingly faded—but appeared to have once been a chestnut brown. Now it was more of a dust-gray. If he put it on, he guessed it would reach a foot or so past his waist. "Thank you," he said. It wasn't all that impressive appearance-wise, but it was the thought that counted, and he appreciated it.

"I could not find you one of those billowing coats you seem to favor, but I presume I'll have better fortune tomorrow. If I find one, I'll bring it with your blood."

Angel nodded. From the look on her face, she was pleased with his reaction. She appeared to be in a better mood now. Her temperament, he found, was much like a light-switch.

He'd given her the location of his preferred butcher. He had been an out-of-town contact, too, so luckily for Angel, the guy was still in business.

Not many shops in L.A. were open these days.

"You should rest," he heard her say. "You're pale again."

He cracked a grin, setting the book down. "Well, on good days I don't usually hold a lot of color."

"I can separate the difference. You also possess a darkness under your eyes." He cast her a stubborn glance. "It will do you no good to spite me—only delay your recovery further. I say this for your benefit, vampire."

He was oddly touched by her concern. Breathing a sigh of defeat, he rose from the chair, prepared to take up a residence on the sofa. As he passed a small table, his eye caught on the VHS tape he'd noticed more than once. "You never told me what this was," he said casually, giving it a nudge on the table as he passed by it.

Her eyes flickered to the object in question. She studied it for a moment, rather without a thought. "I don't know," she said, hearing him getting comfortable on the sofa. "Something within me encouraged my taking of it. I found it in…" her voice trailed off unsteadily, "in Wesley's office." She turned to look at him and found him to be sitting upright, still. "Is there a way we could study it?"

"What—you mean like watch it? We'd need a television and a VCR. I don't think we'd find one here."

"Then we shall find both tonight," she declared. Then, thinking twice, she reconsidered. "Or perhaps it shall be only I to carry out the search. I know what a television is. But you would have to describe the other contraption. You are not quite well, yet."

Angel considered this. "Actually," he began. "I wouldn't really mind a break from this place. Get some air."

"But I thought you didn't breathe?"

Angel looked at her in confusion for a moment. "Wh—no, that's not what I meant. I'd just like to…" he tried to think of an explanation that didn't involve a metaphor that involved human qualities. "Stretch my legs, get out for a while, test the waters, that sort of thing."

"I believe I comprehend your point," she agreed.

"Yeah," he said, then flashed a smile at her, "maybe we can even find your arch nemesis with the Bavarian ax while we're at it."

"Yes," she agreed, comic rage flashing in her eyes. "He will pay for his insult against me."

Angel chuckled at her rash sense of retribution and relaxed into the sofa, swinging his feet around and up onto the other end. He used the baggy shirt she'd found him as extra cushion behind his head and closed his eyes.

There was silence for a moment before her voice cut through the quiet. "Could I lash him to a pike before the sunrise?" she mused aloud. "So his compatriots may witness his humiliating demise?"

Eyes still closed, he allowed a grin to spread across his face. "A flagpole would be better," he advised, light remnants of sleep entering his voice. "Harder for his compatriots to attempt a rescue."

Even though he could not see her, he could more than sense the pleased look of triumph on her face.

**Chapter VIII**

The masks we wear

_**Los Angeles**_

It had been nightfall when they left. Surprisingly, they had run into very little trouble. Though he would not admit it—especially to the proud and competitive demon woman on his right—he was glad for it. He didn't think he'd perform all that well were he to get into a no-holds-barred fight this soon.

Illyria was more than happy to do the killing. Angel got a few novice stakings in as well. Other than that, Illyria was firm in her mission to find the "device that bears visions" and its counterpart, the "vision-maker".

She also asked him something about Crash Bandicoot, for some reason.

An old pawn shop had held their prey. Illyria had been happy to kick her way into the store—smashing glass and steel alike. He knew that asking her to be a little more inconspicuous would fall on deaf ears. He still didn't know what the big deal was about watching that tape. But, Illyria had been insistent on the matter. And while he was happy to get away from their shelter for the time being, she had told him it would please her.

Ever the vampire willing to please, he went along with it.

Plus the whole prospect of her saving his life fell into the equation somewhere. If this was the sort of thing it took to repay a former demon-king ruler older than anything else on the planet that was currently living or undead… he could handle it.

"Beware of that hitch in the earth, half-breed," she cautioned him as they walked now down the sidewalk, pointing out the ridge in the pavement.

The idea of her "looking out for him" struck him as funny. He'd seen the crack without even realizing it, thoughtlessly about to step over it as he held the television to his chest. It seemed to make her happy, so he didn't mind. "Thanks." But then, he recalled when she had requested to keep Spike as her personal pet. He made a face. He hoped that wasn't the case with him. Awkwardness and protest would then ensue.

The night air was a little chilling, he admitted silently. He was glad he'd pulled on that extra shirt she'd lifted for him. She walked just a step ahead of him, VCR under one arm, and the cables with it. She'd offered to take the television, but he convinced her that if they were attacked, it'd be easier if she was less weighted down, since she would be the one doing most of the defending.

Ahead, Angel could see the church.

"This ritual will work, will it not?" he heard Illyria ask.

"It should. I'd give an immediate 'yes', but considering our source—it could be a little iffy."

She cast him a glance. "What do you mean?"

"Pawn shops tend to be on the cheaper side of things," he explained. By the expression she made, he could tell she didn't understand. "Think of it as getting one of your ancient scrolls from a secondhand lard demon named Earl who smells like feet."

The face she made almost made him laugh out loud. "I am seeing your point."

He chuckled. "Don't worry. It should be fine," he assured. "If not, you can just go back in the morning and tear up the place. I'm sure the owner's not around to mind."

"I would have much rather torn apart that vampire who humiliated me the day before."

Angel found himself amused. "I'd thought you'd forgotten about him."

"Not likely," said Illyria. "He _will_ pay. It is only a matter of time." A scream off in the distance made Angel cringe. It didn't go unnoticed. "Don't be worried. You'll be well and fit again soon. Then you can be out here protecting all through the night." She paused, seeing Angel only half-comforted by her words. "And I in the daytime, if it would please you."

He cast her a glance, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Yeah, it would. I'm sure L.A. citizens would appreciate the offer as well."

She gave a sort of nod, dwelling over the idea. Finally, she said, agreeably, "Looking after you has amused me. But I'm certain I could expand my studies further towards those who do not hide in the shadows."

Hearing him laugh pleased her. Though she noticed his smile did not reach far. Ever since that night—and since he had awoken… there was a sadness to him. Even deeper than before. She knew he was always the languished sort, keeping more to himself and quiet. But now there was something even more that caused the troubled frown that often accompanied his features. More so when she wasn't looking.

She was no fool. She knew that most of what he showed her was a farce—a happy face he wore, to hide from her his true thoughts. She did believe he enjoyed her company to a point, though. And perhaps that was what kept him level. Another person. Someone to converse with.

Wesley always told her that being alone in the world was perfectly devastating. Oddly, though, she found she didn't want to study the vampire and this emotion he showed. She wished to rid him of it. Although she would never admit it aloud… she had always admired Wesley just a little bit more when he smiled. Sarcastic, saddened, or otherwise. It's result had left a pleasing and attractive twisting of the facial features she could appreciate.

Perhaps aiding the vampire would please her as well, for reasons she couldn't understand. She thought she might know what troubled him, but they had reached the church entrance, and they had work to do.

As they entered, Illyria told him she knew nothing of the workings of the device they obtained. He'd promised her he'd take care of it. She believed him and was happy she'd finally sate her curiosity towards the mystery tape. It had been a productive night.

"There she is," the vampire said, shifting his new Bavarian ax in his hands. His name was Jerry. Four of his friends watched carefully, exchanging glances with one another. Their vampirism stuck out like a sore thumb on the abandoned street.

"Who's that with her?" another asked suddenly.

There was a brief silence amongst them as they observed before one of them piped up with the answer. "Holy crap, that's that vampire with a soul. Angel," he whispered.

"I thought he was dead!" Another hissed, panicked.

"Of course he's dead," the first snapped.

"You know what I mean!"

"Will you guys shut up?" Jerry snarled. "I want them both dead. Starting with that little blue bitch."

"Jeez, Jerr… They're going into a church. We can't—"

"What's wrong with you? Of course we can. Just don't touch anything and you'll be fine, ya buncha' babies."

"She's pretty tough, though, isn't she?"

Jerry scoffed. "There's one of her and five of us."

"There were also four of _you_ when she took out your old spot."

"And she's got Angel with her." The vampire shuddered, the ensouled vampire's name elicting dangerous foreboding that crept down his spine.

"Relax. She got the drop on us because we weren't ready for her. We weren't paying attention, and neither will she when we pay a visit tomorrow night," Jerry growled, yellow eyes glimmering as he gripped the handle of his new ax firmly in his hands—fully intent on putting it to good use.

**Chapter IX**

Heartcry – moving on

_**Day Seven**_

_**Late-Morning**_

He felt… different. Waking up today, something seemed different. Not just with him, but the day as well. He couldn't place it. He felt a mixture of anticipation, and… something resembling the calm before the storm.

Being torn between the two put him at odds, so he decided to place it aside for now.

Still comfortable on the sofa, he hadn't quite opened his eyes for long. Last night, he had turned in early to get some more rest—after he'd set up the television system for Illyria. After that, he'd been wiped. He hated to admit it, but the long day and trip outside had worn him out.

She seemed to understand, and he promised her they'd investigate the tape sometime today. He didn't know where she'd gone off to after that. He was asleep as his head hit the pillow, he was sure of it.

Becoming more aware as he drifted out of sleep, he heard voices to his left. His brow furrowing—and finding himself with an utter lack of wanting to move from his comfortable position—he merely listened.

_"How do you turn this thing on?"_ a tinny voice queried in a thick English brogue.

_"Just give it to me!" _demanded the high voice of an ex-cheerleader.

Angel opened his eyes.

_"It's not a toy!"_ the Englishman protested further. _"This is an expensive piece of equipment for gathering evidence!"_

_"Let go!" _

_"You're just going to play with it, aren't you?"_

Sitting up, Angel turned to his left, curiosity piqued entirely. What he saw surprised him. The television had been placed on the small table, the VCR beside it. On the television screen, a familiar recording was being played.

Not far away, between himself and the table, sat Illyria. Cross-legged and on the floor, full attention on the screen. She wore the jacket still, but her gloves were discarded on the table also. She had told him once that she enjoyed feeling things—the sensation of touch. Lately, she had been enjoying the feel of both the supple furniture cushions and the mighty steel weapons—an unlikely combination. Though, all the more entertaining.

Angel watched as Wesley came into view, flexing his muscles comically at the camera. _"Pryce. Wesley Windam-Pryce." _He then proceeded to take off in a flurry of embarrassing dance moves involving disco and his own private technique he'd then insisted was the latest fashion.

His eyes fell on Illyria… who was smiling. It was the most gentle look he'd ever seen mark her features—showing off her teeth slightly, her eyes filled with warmth.

And as film-Wesley attempted an advanced trick and collided comically with the camera, he was sure his ears deceived him, thinking that maybe he had heard the softest evidence of a laugh.

Angel felt himself smiling. "I'd forgotten about this."

Illyria cast him a brief look, noting his wakefulness. The smile had faded slightly, but it hadn't vanished completely. She turned back to the television, watching him, rapt. He did something else uproarious that caused her smile to widen again. "He was so happy," she observed, her eyes filled with admiration.

Angel allowed his smile to grow. "Everything was simple, then." His eyes softened as a familiar brunette appeared on the screen, smiling.

"_Mmm… milk." _His smile finally broadened into a grin, and he chuckled quietly at her following skit. "_Mmm… milk! Milk." _A pause. "_I don't get it. How am I not working?" _

Illyria watched him closely, observantly. Her head tilted in that odd manner of hers. In the background, the tape eventually ran out of material, and all that remained was a blue screen.

"You loved her," she said into the still and quiet air. It more closely resembled a question.

Angel hesitated to meet her gaze, fiddling with his hands. At last, he faced her with a partially saddened smile. But it also bore peace.

"Once," Illyria amended. "It was not her name you spoke."

Angel relaxed back into the sofa cushions in thought, still sitting upright. He wasn't sure how to explain it to her. "After Buffy, I… I tried to move on…" he began.

Illyria's face grew soft as she studied him. "But you never ceased in loving her."

Angel didn't reply. There was no need to.

Illyria delved deep into Fred's memories to better understand. "With the slayer, you found your perfect love—perfect joy. Your separate spirits completed the other's in absolute symmetry. One cannot replace such a thing, or turn away."

"In the end… you are never _really_ capable of moving on. You cannot simply discontinue loving the one who shares your soul." Illyria hesitated, her eyes flickering downcast. She sat in silence for a lingering moment, tracing an elegant finger delicately along a simple rift in the floor. "But we try… don't we?" she said softly.

Angel remained quiet and still, watching her.

"Without them, you feel barren… and so, you can either remain alone—haunted by their face and memories," Illyria looked up at him, eyes glittering, "or… you can hope to find the one you will love second-most. Trusting that perchance their presence will ease your sorrow. Blind with innocence. Beautifully naïve."

Angel had since looked away, but the Old One's words reached him none-the-less. His eyes focused on the blue screen before them, deep in thought, its hues reflecting in his steady gaze.

"You will never be out of love with Buffy Summers. The devotion between you is too powerful to neglect. And still you endeavored to escape from her memory with Cordelia Chase." Illyria's eyes focused entirely on him. "Did you really love her, vampire?" she asked tenderly, genuinely wanting to know. "Or was it simply the idea which melted you?"

Angel thought long and hard about the question presented before him—searched deep within himself. Despite being an old, twisted piece of dead flesh, he searched also within his heart. Finally, something Buffy had said to him put everything into perfect perspective, and he was granted with a revelation. With that revelation, his eyes softened, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "No," he said, finally at peace with what had plagued him many a nights, "but she's in my heart."

It was as if a giant weight had been lifted from his chest—bringing him release at last.

Illyria's eyes continued to focus on him, and eventually, she gave a single nod, understanding. Then, bowing her head, she felt a strange stinging behind her eyes. She'd only felt it once before in her entire existence. "This thing called 'love'… is it worth the blood and sacrifice to give in to its embrace?" she asked the silence.

Instead, it was Angel who answered. "The scariest thing in the world is to be alone." Illyria lifted her head at this. Angel studied her closely, unsure of whether to finally speak the words. If worst came to worst… she would either ignore him or beat him senseless with the television. He decided to risk it. "Did you love Wesley?"

Her eyes never left his, but at the question, he witnessed something shatter within her. Within her bright blue gaze, there was a helplessness—a sorrow, beneath her stoic mask.

Gradually, she looked away, closing her eyes with a flutter. Bowing her head, he heard her sniffle quietly. When she opened them again, a layer of moisture had filmed over their surface, clinging to her lashes. She gazed off towards the windows, almost as if she was looking past the wooden barriers and into the sun and sky. "If I am Illyria, I loved him," she said, her voice slightly broken. She allowed her eyelids to fall closed again. "With all my being and more."

Angel's features and softened with sympathy and care at her confession, and he sat forward on the sofa after a while, reaching out to her. "Illyria…"

He watched as a small crystal-like river traced its way down her fair skin, over the roundness of her cheek and past her jaw line. Illyria blinked as she felt it land silently and delicately on the top of her hand.

She stared at it, transfixed, lifting her hand curiously to examine the tiny dot of emotion. He said her name again, but she'd only tilted her head—still studying her hand, which she then brought forward and touched to her cheek. "My face is leaking," she said, almost casual, but still with a hint of remorse. "It happened once before… when I watched Wesley die."

"You're crying," Angel explained gently, the barest of smiles on his lips. "They're tears."

Illyria faced him, still seated on the floor. "This event… this is a trait of humanity?"

"Yes." Angel waited.

Illyria looked again at her hand, touching her face faintly with the other. "It is strange…" she said, "for I do not seem to mind."

Angel's smile stretched a little further. The two sat in silence for a time, basking in the thoughts and words of their meaningful conversation. Illyria turned to study him. He was not looking at her, but at some unremarkable point on the small table. A frown graced her pale cerulean lips. The sadness in him remained.

"There are so many things I don't understand of this world," she began quietly. "But I had been certain I knew the makings of a true ruler. I was a god-king of this world, once."

Angel cracked a grin. "You gonna give me that speech about plankton again?"

Instead, he watched as she rose and switched off the television, but her back continued to face him. She remained there for a while, calm and still.

At last, she spoke. "You wish to know the events of that night. What happened. To know the truth, no matter how painful."

Angel watched her closely. On the surface, he wanted to know everything—he was tired of being left in the dark. But… in his heart, he wasn't ready for it. He would never be ready to face the events of that night. He was terrified of the truth.

Illyria turned to face him. Her eyes were meaningful and earnest. "This would please you?"

He held her gaze for a long time, stalling in the silence. His face held deep sorrow, his brow arched in sadness. He cleared his throat, and without looking away, he told her, "Yes."

Her head tilted slightly and she watched him.

He was certainly not ready to hear it, and she was not ready to say it. However, the more she dwelled on it, the more she knew of its importance and the need for each to face it now. If they indeed waited until they were ready, it wouldn't mean as much. If they waited, it would lose its magnitude and worth on them both. Their comrades deserved better than such a thing. They did not deserve to be forgotten.

More importantly, their friends deserved to be remembered, and honored.

The vampire seemed to understand this. And he accepted it, even though he knew it would break him. She admired him for that.

Preparing herself in order to recite the night in question's events, she did not know how.

Her head hung low as she spoke quietly, "Wesley fell first. This you are aware of."

Angel cleared his throat, swallowing thickly as he tried to steel himself for her retelling. He remembered some things, but his memory was still foggy on most of the events.

"Vail was his death dealer. I came in after the fact." Illyria's lower lip quivered slightly. "I took on Fred's form to comfort him, and then he died in my arms. I killed Vail with vast intensity."

She was mindful of the vampire's reaction to everything she said. For the most part, she could see that he was trying to appear without emotion. But she knew better than that. She knew this was more than a briefing to him.

"After that, I arrived at the alley," she trailed off here, her brow knit with painful remembrance, though she fought to keep her own features neutral. "The human, Charles Gunn… I had been generous when I gave him the ten minutes chance. But he lasted longer than even that. It was his will that drove him. For a time, he fought at your side. I'm sure you recall. You both looked out for one another.

Then, he shouted you a warning. You disposed easily of the creature attacking from your blindside, but the human had given up the knowledge of his surroundings to alert you. A large demon took him from his right. They battled very briefly. The human killed it before he, himself, fell."

Angel felt a deep pain within him as he listened to her explain the night he lost everything—or near enough to it. All his friends had perished. Even though they knew what they were getting into—agreed to it, even, the hurt was no less. He shut his eyes tightly, and she remained silent.

She waited until he was ready for her to continue.

"What…" Angel took mentally what was the equivalent of a deep breath. "What about Spike?"

Illyria's brow furrowed slightly, her head tilting. "I thought you despised him," she said quietly.

Angel cleared his throat. "I-I did, I know that, but… that doesn't mean he doesn't matter. I… he fought with us, up to the end." Angel's face softened. "I honor him for that."

A brief smile ghosted across Illyria's lips. "Then you are truly as noble as they claim," she told him, observing him for a moment. Her face then took on a sadness not entirely common on her features.

"He lasted well into the fight—up almost until it was nearing its end. He was one of the greatest warriors I've ever witnessed in battle—next to you or I. Left and right, he would kill—swift and sure. He fought much like you did," she noted, a little surprised.

Angel smiled slightly. "We fought side-by-side, back in the day," he explained. "Even fought each other, most days."

"You had been friends?" Illyria asked, unable to hide her shock.

Angel chuckled. "Well, we were evil. And, we both enjoyed tormenting others and inflicting pain on humanity. It only made sense—the tormenter of my tormented is my fellow tormenter, and all that. Plus, we had ladies to feed."

Illyria smiled slightly at his reverie and how he told it. Angel, too, took a moment before his lightness died away and he asked her to continue.

Illyria hesitated to take in the design of the simple floor. It was difficult, she would not like to admit, for her to continue. "There was a time, into the battle, when I became overwhelmed," she finally began. "With foes coming at me from all sides, I was uncertain if I could once again gain the upper hand.

Then, behind me, I heard him making his way to me.

He saved you once or twice, and you the same. I thought I would say so, so that you would not have to admit it.

He cleared most of my enemies away, so that I could gain proper stance again. We fought together for a time, before we were surrounded again. I saw you fighting to reach us, to lend us your strength. But you were too late. Having upset that lizard prior to this time, the thing attacked you from your left and pitched you to the earth, engaging you with vicious intent.

I turned, and as I began to make my way towards you, I heard Spike call to me. I knew before I could possibly face him again, that I would not do so in time before the creature would have struck me. I doubt it would have killed me, but it would have severely incapacitated me, nonetheless.

As I did turn, I heard the creature's spear meet flesh. Before my eyes was Spike, the wooden ax handle through his heart." Illyria blinked, suddenly furious and wrought with grief. "I… I didn't even acquire a chance to… to react to his death—before he was gone. He saved me, and I could not even…" she trailed off, shaking her head. She met Angel's gaze, outraged and pained. "It is _sick_," she snapped. "The way you creatures die. It offends me." Through her rage, her jaw shook as she struggled for words.

Angel met her gaze evenly—grief evident in his own. "I know," he said gently. "I'm sorry."

She inhaled deeply, trying to collect herself. After a moment, she appeared to have regained a portion of her calm back. "And you…" she said, finally looking at him again. "You fought with great honor. You, too, saved each of us at errant times during battle, as each of us did for you. We were a single force—a band of warriors, a…" she fought for words, but she found she could not explain herself.

"A team," said Angel finally, finishing what she meant to say.

Illyria's eyes locked with his, large and touching. She nodded slightly, seemingly proud. "Never have I been part of such a thing before," she said. "It feels… unlike anything I've known."

Angel nodded in agreement, happy for her revelation and touch with humanity. He'd help her through it, if she needed him.

And then… everything she'd told him, and the past month's experiences, finally began to sink in. He felt a sinking in his middle and a heavy weight on his shoulders so unrelenting he had to lean over, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

How much could he really take? Before it broke him completely? With a soul, he was really just a man. He had suffered heartache time and time again without release. He found he was quite near his breaking point, and he didn't know how he could handle it much longer.

"Angel," her voice broke through the stillness, surprising him. He couldn't recall a time when she had actually called him by name. Hesitant at first, his eyes raised to meet hers. The utter compassion in her gaze startled him, and he found, stubbornly, he'd rather she just mock him and get this conversation over with. Again, he found he wasn't ready for this. "I have witnessed in one night…" she began with great feeling, "what it is you are faced with every day.

The level of which you have sacrificed is more than I can ever begin to comprehend." She took a step closer to him as he continued to sit. She looked down upon him for a time and then she began to descend, taking a knee before him. Her eyes stared up into his, searching and yet encouraging. "I thought I knew the price it took to make one a ruler. What one had to stand for in order to achieve greatness. I was blind in my beliefs.

I see now, the true face of a king—his strength is born through his love. And through the sacrifices he makes. You do not need a crown or title to be recognized for what you are, vampire. And you may not be one by formalities, but you are kingly in every sense."

Angel felt the weight of her words hit him, and he felt her hand touch his face comfortingly.

"You have suffered great loss. Your comrades—your friends—gave their lives for you, because they believed in you. In your just cause."

He shook his head, trying to discourage her from continuing. "Illyria…" He wasn't ready for this. He felt a deep swell of grief and pain in his chest, and he wanted it to end. What he _wanted_… was to move on. Even though he knew the truth of her statement earlier.

One never moved on. They could pretend to, to try with all their strength and might. But the old love, the old memories, and the old pain—it never left or went away.

Angel felt the stinging in his eyes as his vision became slightly blurred.

"No," she said firmly, but her voice was gentle. "You must face this. And I will help you."

He knew that trying to keep the moisture from falling would only be a waste of his energy, but that didn't mean he was giving up that easily.

Illyria's face softened, the smallest smile gracing her lips. "When Fred was just a small child… her parents would comfort her. They did so in a way I never understood. I could never comprehend the solace behind it—or how it was successful. But it was the simplest phenomenon. They would embrace her… and her fears and troubles would melt away as though they had never thrived."

Angel breathed a laugh, taken by the simple story, but again faced with truth. He hid behind his mockery. "I'm not hugging you, Illyria." Even through the quip, his voice still shook.

Her eyes would not look away from his. Her gaze was steady and firm. She gave the slightest shake of her head. "I was not asking."

Angel's smile fell away, and his features molded into a heartrending look of sorrow. He didn't bother stopping the tears, feeling their trailing warmth as they began to gently descend.

Before he could say anything further, Illyria reached up and took him into her arms.

She heard him attempt to sniff back and stifle his emotions, but it didn't last. A sob escaped him, and soon, she felt his arms around her in kind, clinging to her like a lost boy.

For even a king was once a child.

She didn't know how long this vampire had held back and put his own needs and feelings aside—to make time for others and forget about himself. She only knew it had been far too prolonged. The breaking point had arrived, and she was the only one there to mend it.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair in comfort, his weeping muffled against her.

_A tiny voice within rebuked her for her display of humanity. And consoling a vampire, no less. Illyria—former god-king of the earth. The arrival of which the world shuddered at. Worshipped by fellow idols and gods. She was the wanderer—traveling dimensions as she pleased. She was a keeper of time—bending it to her will. _

She found herself preferring _Illyria_.

Just _Illyria_.

**Chapter X**

Dance of primordial

_**Before Dusk**_

She watched him as he slept.

It was more of an observation than a show of endearment. Or, perhaps it wasn't. She couldn't be certain, lately. Every waking moment, the humanity within her seemed to be swelling. She found herself less threatened by such a thing nowadays.

Still, she often conjured up ways to ensure that her former title would not be forgotten.

For instance, there was a modest, though quaint, structure not twelve blocks from the church dubbed as _Piggly Wiggly_—an undignified title, to say the least—that she'd a mind to conquer someday soon. No doubt she'd have very little resistance.

She remained hesitant, however, on whether she would reveal her strategy to him. Her head tilted in her study of the sleeping vampire. His closed eyes were very slightly rimmed, still, in scarlet, from his display of grief. Beneath, that, however, were unhealthy shadows in their hollows. His face was still incredibly wan—even in the still day-lit room and taking his breed into consideration.

He _was_ healing, though—however gradual. Briefly, she wondered if she might not provide him with more of her own blood—instead of the animal's he'd had her retrieve from then on. She hadn't been able to lend him much during her first donation.

She was vaingloriously proud, though, that the letting of her veins had brought immediate results towards his health. Still, he would probably object. For the vampire was also proud. He'd want to heal on his own time, instead of thieving the strength from another.

He slept with an allayed peace, which she was thankful for. The only thing that marred his angelic face was the barest of frowns. So, perhaps there was a hint of endearment in her study. As much as she loathed to admit it—considering she was supposed to despise him—his presence was growing on her.

In her peripheral vision, she took very slight notice in the fading golden rays that slipped through the boarded windows.

The soft rustle of fabric and cushions caused her to glance back at the sofa, where the vampire was waking. His brow drew together tiredly, and he stretched. It wasn't long until his eyelids fluttered open.

Despite herself, she smiled slightly as he looked at her. "You slumber like the Dead."

She was pleased when a small, halfhearted grin cracked the side of his cheek. "I am the Dead."

"And yet you live," said Illyria, watching him still from the large armchair.

She couldn't quite discern the expression on his face for the look he gave her. It was a hybrid of slight dejection, but also acceptance and knowing. Then, in another instant, the sorrow was gone and replaced by a gratifying sort of warmth. "Thank you, Illyria," he said, his mood lighter now. "I'm very grateful for what you did."

This pleased her. She tilted her head back, bright eyes narrowing slightly. "You are welcome, Angel," she told him kindly, surprising herself. He smirked slightly, and it was obvious that was the first time she'd ever said such a thing to him—or to anyone whom she could recall. She waited for him to mock her, but he never did. Illyria tilted her head, glancing at the small table nearby. "I obtained fresh swine blood for you," she said, rising from the armchair. "I presumed you would not accept more of my own."

Angel sat back in the cushions, giving a small shake of his head. "There's really no need for it," he assured her. "I'm feeling better—stronger."

She tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Truly?" she inquired slyly.

His brow furrowed, and he regarded her with a funny look—at a loss for what she was playing at. "Yes…" said Angel carefully.

"Good," said Illyria, a single syllable stabbed into the air. She then took up a defensive stance. "Then you shall do well, at last, to challenge me," she declared, rather proudly.

A dark eyebrow arched doubtfully into his forehead. "What?"

"Take up your weapon of choice, vampire," Illyria urged rather flippantly, gesturing to the large desk towards the corner of the room. "You have been out of your practice for exactly seven suns and moons. You are in ominous need of training." Illyria snatched two small warrior axes which had been resting against the side of the armchair. "Therefore, we shall do battle." She twirled them once with expert fingers, then remained still—waiting expectantly for him to attack.

Angel only stared up at her from the sofa, a dumbstruck expression plastered upon his face at her sudden proposal. After a moment, he said, "_Ominous need?"_

Illyria's brow knit together. "You are offended?"

Angel's eyebrows shot up comically. "A little."

"Good."

Angel's face scrunched up in indignation. "Hey!" he protested, and Illyria only smirked—giving him the look when she had been allowed to throw Spike around in the training room. "You make it sound as if I couldn't go three rounds with a fruit-fly. I've heard that before, and it wasn't any less insulting back then."

Illyria tilted her head. "With my blood, you could drop thirty legions of these fruit-flies with a single glance. If only you hadn't cast off my offer so hastily," she chided. "Come, vampire. I have a need to strike something."

Angel couldn't believe his ears. She was taunting him.

He tried to deepen his frown in order to hide his mirth. The twitch at the corners of his mouth finally gave him away, and she twirled the axes in her hands expectantly, a fine eyebrow arched.

A slow grin of snide relations spread across his face. Amused, he nodded. "Alright," he said. He rose from the sofa, looking down at her from his height. "Alright, you Smurf," he conceded, chuckling as he moved past her and took up a large broadsword, getting a feel for it in his hands—testing its weight.

Illyria still had her back to him, but her neck craned so that she could leer at him from the corner of her eye. Narrowing her eyes, a smug bend lifted her lips ever so slightly. Angel, hoping he was as well as he said he was, tossed the broadsword lightly—allowing it to twirl rapidly in the air by its axis before catching it again.

It would do no good if she was able to whoop him like some novice yutz.

He felt only a little faint, but he knew she was right—a little practice would do him some good. Not that he wasn't sure he could totally own a fruit-fly any day of the week, but lately—a hummingbird seemed iffy.

Illyria turned to face him, grin firmly in place with anticipation. She backed around the couch into the larger space between it and the stairs. Angel followed casually.

He smiled softly. "As my good friend Spike would be happy to say…"

But Illyria was already there. "Let us dance, you and I."

**Chapter XI**

Destiny

"That is the second time I've been associated with this 'Smurf' creature since my time here," said Illyria, sidestepping one of her rival's attacks. "Though it displeases me to say—I've grown somewhat curious at its relevance."

Angel ducked her sweeping strike, feinting to her right thereafter. "Oh," he said, shrugging a shoulder at her question. "It's an old cartoon show. They were like little… ah… I don't know—elves? But smurfs."

Illyria scoffed in irritation as he knocked aside one of her kicks. Neither one was battling at their full ability, but it didn't irk her any less. "But what is their significance towards me?" she asked more hospitably. "Did they worship me? I must say, half-breed, you will certainly not be gaining my good grace if you are calling me after my followers."

Angel laughed. "No," he amended. "They just had blue skin."

Illyria faltered in her stance, shoulders slumping slightly. "Oh," she said, a little disappointed. She looked back to him expectantly. "Did none of these car-tunes worship me?"

Angel smiled at her mispronunciation. "Cartoons. And no. I don't think their creators knew about the Old Ones _or_ the Deeper Well." At her look of disappointment, he quickly amended: "But they could have. Some of them used to be our clients." Briefly, he wondered if she was going to ask if _Wolfram and Hart's_ clientele involved the smurfs.

"What of this Crash Bandicoot?" she asked, pressing further. "He battled many gods, did he not? Surely, _he_ knew of me."

Angel stopped in his movements, allowing his shoulders to sink. "Illyria, Crash Bandicoot is a video game character."

Illyria frowned. She suddenly brought her two weapons down against him, to which he deflected quickly with his broadsword. The blades sang upon connection. "But his crystals," she insisted. "They most resembled those of my sarcophagus. Who are these cartoon beings that they do not know of my essence or chronicles?" she demanded.

Angel gave her a tolerant, though reproving, look. "Don't you think you're being a little harsh on them?"

She stepped back, allowing him to gain proper footing again. She glared into the floor beneath her feet. "Perhaps you are right," she ceded. Reluctantly, of course.

"Besides," Angel went on, shrugging and setting himself for an attack position. "You probably have all sorts of nerdy-types bragging you up on the CR's," he assured, attacking from her left, faking a jab and then rolling to the side. "Qua-suses, or sahns—whatever you call them."

"What is a CR?" Illyria questioned with a tilt of her head, dodging his attack easily and blocking his second with a crossing of her weapons.

"Chatty Rooms. Internet Boards. Hell, they talk about _me_ there."

"I do not know of these, either." Illyria seemed crestfallen, and then confused. "Are you certain you pronounce this correctly? Chatty Rooms?"

Angel paused in thought, a slight 'o' to his mouth. He blinked, trying to shrug off his uncertainty. "Probably not. I'm technologically challenged that way," he confessed. "You should have seen me with a cell phone." He set out with another forward attack.

"I know what that is," Illyria declared happily, and easily blocked him.

"So did I," Angel agreed. "Doesn't mean I could wield the thing like a Scythian bow, though." He pressed towards her with a spinning attack which took a lot of effort, considering his condition.

She had to work to deflect it, though, for which he was proud. "We old ones are strangers in this new world, aren't we?" she mused aloud, staring off.

Angel paused to rest, putting his hands on his knees. "I think we always will be. We're too accustomed to our time of youth. We got used to things the way they were."

Illyria tilted her head slowly, her eyes flickering about the room without a pattern in reverie. "I think I was never young."

"You must have been," Angel shook his head. "You couldn't have existed forever. Only one guy I know of can say that. And we're His houseguests." Angel straightened. "Though, His hospitality towards me leaves something to be desired..." he mumbled as an added afterthought.

"No," she agreed. "I think I am just so very old, that I've forgotten."

Angel watched her, grateful that they were taking a small break. He hated to say that he was getting worn out, but… he was getting worn out. His broad shoulders slumped, causing the broadsword's point to drag tiredly on the concrete. He guessed it was concrete. Or cement. He didn't know the difference. He smiled though, despite his exhaustion. "You know… you referred to us both at one time," he pointed out. "Last time someone referred to themselves in comparison to you, you put them through a wall. I think you're growing as a person," he told her lightheartedly.

Illyria wasn't all too amused. She faced him with a scowl he found rather comical. Her sharp eyes narrowed at him and when she spoke, he could tell she was miffed. "You use my patience out of turn, half-breed," she cautioned him, readying her weapons again. Though she appeared irritated, he knew by her face she wasn't angry.

He pressed further, going back to his previous proclamation. "Are you saying we're friends, Illyria?" he ribbed, knowing it would aggravate her.

It did. She sneered, narrowing her eyes at him. "Bold little leech." Without a warning, she attacked from a forward position. Taken by surprise, Angel struggled to block it, steel ringing in the little church basement.

She struck again from the side, and he danced around it, blocking the next. Her following, though, he was not so quick to deflect. One of her blades struck the back of his hand, the sudden pain causing him to drop his weapon. It clattered to the floor as he grimaced, trying to shake off the minor injury.

Illyria immediately backed off, her features falling troubled. "Are you all right?"

He hissed at the burning discomfort, but nodded. "Fine."

Illyria watched him carefully. If she were human, her cheeks would have reddened. She bowed her head slightly. "I… I am sorry."

His eyes went back to her, surprised at her apology and the fact she was issuing him one. "Really," he said, showing her his hand, and that no serious harm was done. "It's okay."

She inspected his hand for a moment from where she stood, but shook her head. "Still… you are tiring quickly now. You should rest."

Angel sighed. "Taking a break sounds promising," he agreed, but then shook his head as he bent down to pick up his fallen weapon. "It's not that I can't handle it, it's just…" he searched for the words, "I don't know… I feel… weird."

Illyria gave a slight tilt of her head. "Explain."

"I really can't say," Angel stepped back and leaned against the rear of the sofa. "Ever since today, when I woke up, I've felt… strange." He gave another shake of his head. "Something's off."

Illyria sifted through what he'd told her, searching for an explanation. "Do you think it is my blood in you that causes this?"

Angel shook his head. "No," he said. "Because I've felt the same up until today. I look the same, don't I?"

"You continue to appear pallid, but you are still healing. Even so, your shell's appearance has improved since the moon before this coming night."

Angel pushed himself away from the sofa. "Maybe I just need a drink," he muttered.

"There was something, though…" Illyria began hesitantly, catching his attention as Angel cast her a glance over his shoulder as he stepped around the sofa. "You fought stronger than you should have. For a being of your condition, I mean." At his confused expression, she explained further. "You still cease to exceed my strength in your current state, but your attacks and the way you defended were slightly beyond the bounds of someone who should lack full strength, thus far."

"Maybe you just miscalculated."

Illyria scowled. "I should skin your hide."

"I'm just saying," Angel put his hands up in surrender, and to his displeasure, he felt his voice catch, becoming a little dry. He couldn't be _losing_ strength. "I feel like I got run down and backed over a few times by an eighteen-er. I can't be as strong as you say."

Illyria's brow drew together in thought. "Then I do not know what to think," she murmured.

As Angel moved over to the small table bearing counter to his dinner, he felt a little light-headed, the room spinning slightly around him. He blinked, trying to shake it off. He took up the glass he'd poured himself, leaning against the table for support. He huffed, shaking his head. "You and me both, Dory," he agreed, putting the glass to his lips and taking a few gulps.

Illyria still stood in the center space of the room. She cast him a glance. "What is a Dory?"

Angel made a face at the taste in his mouth. "It's ah…" He pulled the glass away and inspected its contents. It certainly seemed fine. Pig's blood. Just like always. "Another cartoon character." _Trust me, _Angel thought_, if you've been around Lorne enough, you find yourself learning all the pop culture history. _"She's a blue tang, from… from…" Everything was spinning again. He closed his eyes tightly, opening them again in hopes of clearing his vision. "Finding… Nem…"

It started in his middle. A dull sort of ache that grew upwards, slowly at first.

"Angel…?"

The snail's pace over, it flushed through his system, up, traveling along his spine…

The glass slipped from his fingers, plummeting and shattering against the floor—sending glass flying and blood pooling.

…before it reached his skull—assailing him with a sharp, sudden and blinding pain. Angel cried out, bringing a hand to his forehead while his other grasped at the table's edge, trying to steady himself.

Despite her distressed call, he could barely hear her—her voice had sounded drowned out compared to the rushing in his ears, so far away. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and yet pictures danced across his vision.

_Flashes of light… and a doorway… white stone room… blue and gold-skinned creatures… a man and a woman—or male and female… black robes… bright azure eyes… familiar… more light assaulting his already aching sight… and…_

Nothing.

Angel gasped, coming out of his state, panting as the pain slowly, slowly, began to ebb away from his being. He took in his surroundings. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen, for now he was on the floor, on his knees. She was at his side, knelt beside him—one hand on his back, another on his arm.

"Are you all right?" She asked for the second time that day—though this time there was significantly more alarm lacing her voice. "Angel…"

He blinked hard, putting a hand to his brow and groaning. "It's okay," he said. "It's…" he focused back on what he had witnessed, confused as ever. He was surprised he'd had a vision—he'd forgotten completely about possessing the gift—but he couldn't understand what had been shown to him. "I… I saw…" he shook his head, at odds. "Oracles. But… they're dead, I don't understand…"

"Saw?" Illyria repeated. "You have the gift of Sight?" she proclaimed. "_How_?"

"Visions. I… got them from a friend." Angel winced, his splitting headache finally dissipating.

"Can you rise?" Illyria asked, unsure of what she should do.

Angel placed his palms firmly on the floor to steady himself. "I think so."

"These Oracles. Is it vital we convene with them?"

Angel nodded. "I'm thinking there must be something going on, or down, or… I don't know…" he winced. "God… I don't…"

"Angel, what is it?"

Angel cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor, unable to hold himself up.

"Another one?" Illyria said, worried and not knowing what to do. "So soon after?"

"No…" Angel cringed, shaking his head. The pain was returning in full scale. "No… something's wrong…"

Illyria was certain of that. She kept her hands on him, unwilling to leave his side. Thoughts began to rush through her mind—worries and fears. What would she do if he left her? She would be alone. Utterly and completely. As of this moment, she knew no one in this world but him.

Angel shouted in pain, and suddenly, the walls around them began to shudder. Illyria knew of earthquakes. She could sense them. Even caused a few, back in her day. But this was no earthquake. She knew not what it was, and so it frightened her.

Not for her own protection—she could more than take care of herself. But she knew nothing of what was causing her ally this grief, or what was stirring around them. The walls trembled, the old boards moaning eerily. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, and some of the weapons clattered off one of the tables.

Angel cried out again—the pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The vision had brought him pain that birthed within his skull. But _this_… this new torment… originated within his chest, and he clutched at it now without release. This pain did not come in flashes or jabs; it never let up. It was as if all he had ever known was this anguish—everything that came before was a blur.

It felt as if a thousand demon knives were tearing into his flesh at once—magnified to a worse amount. Internally, his body was on fire—_had_ to be—yet freezing at the same time.

He screamed in agony, squeezing his eyes shut as tears sprung and streamed from them. Illyria was at his side, in a panic. He felt his face change to its vampiric likeness, his cry morphing into a monster's suffering roar—fangs bared. Illyria's brow arched helplessly. She could only hope the torment would end, and she would stay with him until it did. If it did.

As if on cue, Angel's demon face began to recede back into hiding—his eyes fading from gold to brown again, and his fangs shrunk back into normal incisors. A brilliant white light—dwarfed significantly—seemed to flash in his eyes for a split moment.

The human eye wouldn't have been quick enough to spot it.

A final scream died on his lips, and left him trembling—shaking horribly. Illyria held him, best she could. "Angel…"

His breathing was shallow and quick—too quick. It was almost a wheeze, pained and uneven. His teeth chattered slightly, even though he wasn't cold. Illyria was sure of that. Where her hand touched the skin of his hand and the back of his neck, she would swear he was falling ill to a fever—compared to the usual coolness of his undead flesh.

Her sharp ears picked up on something… a steady drum. She looked around, nervous that someone may have been planning an attack. _Now_ would certainly not be a convenient time.

Angel found it hard to focus his gaze on anything—the pain still fresh in his mind, while something else sought to meddle with his internal gears. He felt completely drained, a strange sensation within him… he still couldn't steady his breathing.

The drum continued, like a heavy bass thrumming…

_BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM…_

_BOOHM-BOOHM… BOOHM-BOOHM…_

Illyria warily looked around, her large blue eyes probing the area. "What is that sound…?"

She felt Angel squeeze her hand slightly, without even realizing it, probably. He laid on his side, in a manner, one hand—the one she held—against his chest, and the other outstretched against the floor.

Illyria was about to question him further, when her query died on her lips before so much as a syllable passed them. She felt something… as she gripped his hand, and he in return…

Slowly, as if someone had turned her time-deceleration ability against her, her gaze slipped and drifted down to him.

Not only did she continue to hear the drum… she could _feel_ it.

She was about to speak—or attempt to—before something else far more important and evident caught her attention as if it seized her with a hook. "Angel…?" she began, gaze steady on his other, outstretched, arm.

A slight ray of fading sunlight still leaked through the boarded windows. It tenderly kissed everything it touched: the floor's smooth surface, a small corner of the worn, yet beautiful, area rug, and…

Two inches of Angel's hand was blanketed by a golden shaft of light.

His flesh went unburned.

**Chapter XII**

That which is hidden

"You're a…" she trailed off—at a complete loss. Illyria gaped in blatant shock, her slender jaw partly slackened.

Still trembling from the episode, Angel slowly allowed his eyes to fall on his outstretched arm. Though the sun was fading behind the horizon, its final grasping rays still bathed his flesh affectionately in glorious light—leaving him uncharacteristically unscathed.

His lips parted, searching for the words to speak, but they never arrived. He could not only sense the vibrant life around him, he could _feel_ it—within himself.

He felt completely and entirely_ alive_.

Everything felt so different. His faint heartbeat—_his_ heartbeat—sounded more like the strident drumbeats of an angelic choir, rejoicing, in his ears. His chest expanded perfectly with every breath. Tentatively, still in shock, he touched his fingers to his cheekbone—feeling the flawless, mortal warmth of his own skin.

He was terrified.

How had this happened…? And why?? Clearly, there was a reason behind it. Too many questions flew at him at once, sending his mind a-scramble. What had caused this? How? Why? Why now? Who was responsible?

Immediately, all the questions suddenly vanished with a sudden burst, like the discharge of a shotgun. One simple statement caused all the questions to disappear into nothingness.

He was human.

Lost in the moment divided by panic and absolute bliss, he found himself unable to act on the unexpected miracle.

"Angel…" her voice broke through his silent daze, slightly fearful. Illyria preferred things she could explain. This, she most certainly could _not_.

She would not get a chance to, either. For it was then that a rumbling crash came from far above them—assumingly near the church's entrance. Illyria's attention snapped into focus, eyes alert.

She'd had yet to move from her position at his side, and she didn't yet intend to. Protectively, her grip tightened on his arm and shoulder, her icy stare flickering about vigilantly. "The froth of the streets have become brazen," said Illyria darkly. Her eyes narrowed in the study of the air before they widened considerably in astonishment. "The Dead invade the church," she spoke, loud erratic footsteps echoing above their heads. She shook her head, turning to him. "The sun is swiftly vanishing above our brows and almost lost, but still it breathes—how is this possible?"

Angel pushed himself up slightly on his palms, turning his attention towards the closed door to their far right, across the room. His arms wobbled a little unsteadily. He felt frail and weak—not because of his freshly acquired and unexplained humanity, but because of the sudden radical shift. "Sewers," he whispered, unable to look away from the door.

The footsteps drew worryingly closer, loud and bearing doom.

"They are quick," Illyria hissed quietly, shaking her head. "Too quick."

"They've just fed," he explained, still slightly in a fog, an eerie foreboding to his words. He sat up farther, onto his elbows, watching with her. "They'll be stronger, now."

They had reached the stairs, the wood groaning and cracking in discomfort beneath the charging weight. Quickly, Illyria pulled the disoriented former-vampire to his feet, helping him stand. "Can you fight?" she asked quickly, her voice firm. As she pressed him back with one hand, she kept half her attention strictly on the door.

"I…" Angel shook his head, watching the entrance, unsure of what to think. Everything was happening too fast. "I don't…" He didn't know.

_SLAM!_

The door to the small basement flew off its hinges, landing on the concrete floor with thunderous timbre. Five ill-tempered vampires crossed the threshold, undead veins raging with fresh blood—driving their adrenaline to the max. Illyria spun to face them, stepping protectively in front of Angel—her stance imperial and threatening. The five bared their fangs in either arrogant smirks or dangerous glowers.

Illyria would skip formalities of introductions or questioning. "You are not welcome here," she declared, the blue in her eyes all the more icier. In truth, if it was only her, she would care little to none about such a thing and dive straight into the executing. But now, she had to look out for the man at her side. On average, she could dispose of these cretins within moments. But now, victory would not come so easily when one of her eyes would be keeping protective watch over him.

One vampire stepped forward, arms spread in irritating pride. "That's not your decision, little girl." The fresh blood in his system made him overconfident. Though, he was right. This was no home. It was of public association—even if abandoned.

Illyria tilted her head, eyes narrowing menacingly. "You would do well to seal your maw," she advised coldly. "For you are especially ignorant regarding the outcome of the last creature who labeled me such."

"Please excuse my friend," the vampire, Jerry, began—stepping forward past his companions. "He talks too much."

"_You_," Illyria growled, a scowl twisting her lovely features.

Jerry grinned. "We're not here for that," he said, pulling the Bavarian ax from behind his back. "We're here to fight."

At the sight of the pilfered weapon, her eyes flashed with ancient fury. "Then you have come to die," she snarled.

Jerry's smile died away and molded into a frown. "I don't think so," he said, then shouted: "Take them!" At once, the remaining four charged forward, teeth bared with inhuman roars sounding.

The first one to go was the vampire who dared to belittle the Old One with childish monikers. Illyria took him by the side of his face, grasping each ear and tearing them away, a scream ripping from his throat at the vicious assault. As he fell, Illyria kicked out a leg, snapping a post off the nearby table, flipping it up into her hand and shoving it through the undead one's heart. This played out in the span of three seconds. After knocking away the next in line, she twirled to face her comrade. "Stay back!" she ordered. "I will fight them!"

Angel didn't like that idea. At the moment, he stood with the wall against his back for support, still lightheaded, but more aware. He didn't think such a plan would work out anyway, because one of the vampires slipped past the battling Old One and came for him.

Illyria was furious at the nerve of these bloodsucking fiends. Their boldness surpassed her own explanations of what she considered a death wish.

Did they not know who she was?

Illyria ducked an attack, rising swiftly back up before she snapped her assaulter's neck, thereafter driving her makeshift stake into his heart with great pleasure. Three remained.

The vampire showed off a grin of razor-sharp fangs. "Angel," he rasped. "I've been meaning to…" but then, he paused, brow furrowing and smirk faltering. "You…" the creature shook his head. "You can't be him," he said, bewildered. "You're human." The scoff on his demonic face soon twisted into a predator's gleam, however. "All the more easy." As he attacked, Angel ducked and took up one of the fallen weapons at his feet, blocking the vampire's next assault.

Illyria seized her own opponent's shirt collar in both hands before pivoting and slamming him into a nearby wall—the old frames cracking under the force. He weaseled out of her grip, throwing a punch at her. She caught his fist effortlessly in hers and snapped it to the side at a vicious angle, bones shattering in the arm. The vampire shouted in agony.

Uncaring at his suffering—though wishing she could unleash more upon him—she placed her boot firmly on his chest and shoved. He was sent back and into the briar patch of lumber from the recently abused wall, several wooden slats piercing his heart at once.

She ducked as a Bavarian ax blade hummed past her head.

Angel, a little unsteady, remained mostly on the defensive as his opponent came at him from errant sides. Blocking another attack, the vampire seized the weapon Angel held in his hands. Losing his footing, Angel inwardly cursed as this caused him to surrender necessary balance. The opponent vampire ripped the long ax from his hands and smashed its handle into Angel's jaw, knocking him aside.

Illyria glared daggers as she and her 'arch nemesis' circled one another like rabid wolves. She wasn't concerned.

She knew who would win.

Jerry flashed her another grin, swinging the ax through the air viciously, splitting the air. Illyria easily avoided it, and the two locked in combat. Through a series of blocks and offending blows, the match was made slightly more even by the fact that this vampire, Jerry, wielded an ax.

_A very impressive weapon, at that, _Illyria seethed. _That which is not rightfully his._

She probably could have ended him long before now if he wasn't so high off of feeding. He altogether irritated her.

Angel had yet to receive any chance of delivering his own blows. This was getting bad. The irony of Fate's timing didn't escape him. Of all the times to be attacked by a pack of vampires...

He knew it then.

He was going to lose.

Not only was he human, but he was also weakened from the transition, and highly disoriented. He couldn't focus for the life of him. It almost seemed as if he were fighting two opponents. It was certainly his dizzied vision which showed him double. He felt the flesh of his cheek split as the blade of the long ax tore into it, his failure to dodge all the more obvious for it.

Too late to act.

The vampire before him let out a growl and charged him, ax upraised and fangs bared in feral malice. Angel flinched back, closing his eyes out of instinct and placing his hands before him.

Illyria took a hit to her jaw to build her rival's confidence. She was pleased at the success of her strategy. Overcome with pride, Jerry swung the Bavarian beauty in a slicing arc, straight down at his foe.

Illyria's steel gaze hardened even more without mercy, knowing then she had triumphed. She caught the ax blade in her now-gloved hand, closing her fingers tightly around it in a death grip.

Jerry's eyes widened.

Illyria tore the ax from his grasp, bringing the handle swiftly up to directly connect with the vampire's chin. Jerry's head snapped back. Illyria swung the ax with sharp precision, ashes settling around her. She straightened imperiously, eyes falling half-lidded as she glared down upon the remains. "This is mine." She gripped the handle possessively of her recently reclaimed acquaintance.

She spun around, but froze stiff at the sight before her. Her eyes widened in disbelief, jaw falling slack.

Angel's eyes remained tightly closed. But, slowly, they began to open. When they finally settled on what lay before him, his expression took on a form that most-resembled the Old One's.

Angel held his arm out before him. In that outstretched arm, he held the struggling vampire by the throat—said vampire's boots were a good two feet above the solid floor. In the creature's mêlée, he had dropped his weapon, and now clutched at Angel's vice grip with both hands.

Angel only continued to gape in amazement. And utter confusion.

Illyria, finally breaking out of the spell, scooped up a fallen stake in her free hand and planted it in the airborne vampire's back, all the way through to its heart. It wailed before falling to ashes. Angel stared, shaking his head slightly after a moment and slowly lowered his arm. At a loss, he looked to Illyria for aid and explanation.

She, too, seemed defeated with uncertainty.

Finally, it was Angel who broke the mystified silence, "Should that have happened?"

Illyria tilted her head, looking first at the remains of the officially deceased vampire, and then to the former-vampire before her. She did this twice more before she responded. "I submit that we convene with these dead Oracles immediately."

**Chapter XIII**

Freedom gained

_**Somewhere Beneath Los Angeles**_

"I'm not entirely certain I comprehend the significance of this postal bureau," Illyria complained. "Why are the resting grounds of archaic seers situated in such a location as beneath it?"

Angel glanced around the area carefully. He didn't look at her as he responded, stepping up to the waist-level column, "I don't make the rules." The column's center was hollowed out, awaiting the proper persuasion that would allow entrance through the mystical archway before it.

"You certainly don't follow them, either," Illyria cast him a glance, paying more attention to the sealed off stone archway. "You live and breathe when you should be a walking parasite—feeding off the life of others and slithering about in shadows. You defy nature's order."

Angel made a face. "I appreciate your perceptive description." His lightheadedness was gone from memory, which gave him at least one thing to be certain and pleased about. He felt alive, but he also felt extraordinarily more powerful than any human being should—which remained a mystery. It wasn't a vampire's strength, that was for certain. He'd tried several times to pull his demon face from within, but each time had failed.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the potions necessary for access into the separate realm. Obtaining them hadn't been quite so easy a task. Although, Illyria's newly reclaimed prize and his yet unexplained power took care of the brunt of it. "Still, that's what we're here to find out. Last time this happened, it didn't go so well."

Illyria's attention snapped to him in full. "This has happened before?"

Angel dashed a few powders into the column's orifice. He squirmed slightly at the question. "Well… kind of. Technically, it never happened…" he closed his eyes, giving a quick shake of his head. "Long story."

"Clearly."

Angel pitched in the final tonic, the bright flames licking at the air. He spoke then to the column. "We beseech access to the Knowing Ones."

A brilliant light whiter than any other began to engulf the space and the two warriors. Moments too late, Angel recalled a vital factor he'd been foolish enough to let slip his mind. Cringing, he could barely think up a curse before he felt a familiar weightlessness and forceful pull, a rush of wind billowing around them.

Immediately, he felt his feet touch solid ground again, and the light vanished.

The realm remained unchanged—perfect in every way.

Angel glanced to his left, and Illyria exchanged a look with him. "This is the House of Knowledge?" she asked, icy gaze flickering about critically with an air of comic superiority. "My temple was far greater."

Angel shot her a reprimanding glare. But then his face twisted in dread. "I… um, I might've forgot…"

"What?"

A vast rush of wind filled the air around them, causing Illyria's hair to whisk and Angel's shirt to flutter. Angel winced. "A gift. We need a gift!" he whispered roughly, frantic. He had never been without a gift—and he didn't care to know otherwise. He'd been close once, and that had been embarrassing and life-threatening enough. Finally, his stare settled on the intricate and divine Bavarian ax still hanging from Illyria's grasp. "The ax!"

Illyria's eyes narrowed at him, her head tilting.

The wind rushed swifter. "Illyria—give them your ax! We need a gift!"

"The hell, you say." Her voice was firm and flat—leaving no room for debate. Her hold tightened on the weapon possessively, and she took half a step away from him.

Angel groaned loudly. "If we don't have a gift, there will be no conference." Then, muttering, he added: "And, they'll most likely kill us."

Illyria stood straighter. "Not if I am to strike first," she growled.

"Silence your tongue," a masculine voice commanded. "Or we shall have it."

Both Angel and Illyria turned their attention to the newly arrived oracles—male and female, clothed in black silk and robes. They came forward with marveling grace, large cobalt eyes unblinking. Their golden-bronze flesh seemed to shine in the brilliant air, blue lines marring its excellence.

The woman smiled when her gaze fell on Angel. "It is the champion," she crooned. "Do you possess an offering?"

Angel turned his attention back to his companion. "Illyria, give them the ax."

Illyria's glare of doom would approximate a thousand volcanoes bearing down on the former-vampire's head.

Angel quickly glanced at the oracles, who seemed to be turning a little impatient. "Illyria…" he pressed, turning back and looking her in the eyes. His features softened slightly, insisting. "Please."

Her own mask of refusal faltered a bit, though her frown deepened. Her leather gloves squeaked as her grip tightened around the ax's handle. There was a drawn-out moment of inactivity before Illyria finally appeared to surrender.

Achingly slowly, she began to face the oracles as if her joints were solid steel that needed to be persuaded. Reluctantly, her arms outstretched, grudgingly presenting the great weapon before the two soothsayers.

The woman took hold of it and made to take it. Illyria's grip tightened. The female seer frowned—fixing Illyria with a reproving stare. The demoness' stiff fingers finally released the handle.

"Lovely," the woman smiled, admiring the weapon before handing it off to the man. He allowed the air to take it before it disappeared into light—swallowed by the realm.

Illyria looked ready to kill something.

Angel cleared his throat as the meeting could now begin.

"Why are you here, Lower Being?" the male oracle questioned, bored and disapproving.

"Do not call him that, Brother," the woman chided, then turned to Angel with a smile. "You seek answers, Angel."

Angel looked uncertain on how to begin, but proceeded. "Yes."

"First and foremost," the male began—unwilling to be so easily defeated. He aimed a hand at Illyria. "_That_ _creature_… holds no right to be here."

Illyria tipped her chin back in challenge.

"Old One," the male addressed her directly. "Your boldness will lead you _nowhere_ in this realm."

"_She_," Angel began, stepping in front of Illyria, "is with me. No harm can come to her." He looked between the two meaningfully. "She has no quarrel with you or your Sister."

"That thing," the male began threateningly, "belongs in the Deeper Well. Where it should have stayed."

"Please," Angel turned his attention to the woman. "I'll vouch for her. She's on our side."

The woman studied him for a lingering moment before she turned to the man. He was about to go off on another declaration, but she stalled him with a wave of her hand. "Peace, Brother," she said, then nodded to Angel. "If Angel gives his word for it, I trust his cause. After all…" she looked briefly to Illyria, "it _has_ done good."

The male's frown deepened, but he cast away the issue with a similar wave of his hand. "Very well," he relinquished.

The woman looked to Angel pleasantly. "You may present your queries."

Angel shook his head. "I don't understand how you're alive. I watched you die."

"We are the equals of our former lives," the man explained. "Our force is theirs, and theirs, ours."

"That is not why you come, Champion," the woman said, a small bend to her golden lips. "_You_ are _here_… on account of your beating heart."

Angel studied her carefully. "I'm human," he said, if a little dubious on the matter.

"Yes." The male tilted his head.

"Again." Another smile from the woman, wider now. "Finally."

"Finally?" Angel shook his head, unable to comprehend whatever deeper meaning the riddle held.

"Why, because of the Prophecy," she explained, pausing for a moment and allowing the words to hang in the air. "Your destiny, Angel."

He felt a fluttering warmth in his chest at the notion, but he suppressed it with grim duty and confusion. "The Shanshu? But, I…" he shook his head, torn. "I signed it away," he confessed sadly—knowing that even if such a confession would take away his new found humanity, he could not lie.

The woman smiled. "A final test," she said, then laughed a little. "Did you _truly_ believe that a little guild of demons could deny you what the Powers deemed your very right? Your reward?"

Angel allowed the words to sink in—silent in thought. At last, he shook his head. "But why now?" he asked quietly. "After all this time…"

The woman chuckled. "Well… what a shoddy outcome that would have held," she mused. "If you had been granted your humanity straight after your closing fray, you would be an insignificant corpse still weighing down the pavement of that alley," she explained. "You required proper time to become well again—and to confront the consequences of your crusade." Here, she trailed off with sympathetic grief.

Angel remained quiet in her telling, staring at the intricate design of the stone floor beneath his feet—lovely and unmarred. Thereafter, he lingered without change, calm and still.

The woman tilted her head and smiled, eyes softening as she stepped closer to him and placed her hand comfortingly on his arm. "When you signed away the very thing you had been fighting for…" the woman's eyes glittered with pride, "in order to serve a greater purpose—you showed your _true_ worth as a Champion."

Angel felt the magnitude of her words rest on his now-beating heart. Even Illyria appeared uncharacteristically without speech as she observed the exchange with interest.

"An angel of darkness, you are no more." The female oracle shook her head, touching a cool hand to his cheek. "But an angel of _light_. You have earned this in every respect. You have earned your right to be called Man."

The moment hung, suspended. Even the man's lips lifted in a warming, charitable grin. Angel took that moment to bask in the blind gladness of it all, _feeling_ the breath of life in his lungs—rather than just instinctively allowing its cycle.

To his left, Illyria spoke. "But his strength belongs to an Immortal," she began quietly. "How is this possible?"

The male stepped forward. "He ingested the life-blood of the Liaison," was the simple explanation.

"His ancient power passed down to you. Said power was not connected to your vampirism. And so, it could not be taken from you," the woman added.

"Was this supposed to happen?" asked Angel.

"It was not a part of the Prophecy, no," the woman said, but then spread her hands slightly. "However, the event unfolded—and so it was meant to be."

"This was a gift without connection to the greater purpose," said the man.

"All ties to your former curse have been severed."

Angel had to agree. He breathed a laugh, still glowing despite his following recollection. "It sure felt like it. It was like being torn in every direction. Not that I'm complaining," he amended, heartfelt with it. "I'd do it all over again."

The woman's smile grew as wide and lovely as it had ever been. "Silly boy," she said. "You are _free_." This, she divulged with great feeling. "By _all_ accounts." She touched her hand to his cheek again, beaming. "Those were not your cries of pain, dear one. That was not you greeting death and torment." She shook her head of black curls, eyes deep with sentiment. "Those were the screams of Angelus."

**Chapter XIV**

rewards

Angel felt ready to break down in front of both the prideful Oracles and the judgmental Old One at his side. As if he could not be granted any more joyful brilliance and complete gladness, the lady seer had had to mention that little piece of value.

Free of Angelus. Forever.

At last.

Angel allowed the words to sink in, eyes glittering with emotion.

That was better than being human.

"It seems I shall never meet him, then," Illyria mused aloud, breaking the moment. She'd had to admit—she was curious about the belligerent, though cheery, counterpart of Angel's psyche.

Angel laughed outright, eyes still glistening as he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, massaging it. Feeling one's heart alive and beating was one thing, but experiencing it lift with absolute delight until it couldn't possibly lift any farther was another thing entirely. However, there _was_ one more thing that he knew would push it over the edge and bring him perfect bliss. Without consequence. Thinking of said factor caused the heart in question to beat faster with anticipation.

"Your reward does not end here, Human," the man-seer notified, a hint of secret in his tone.

Angel looked to him in surprise. How could there possibly be more?

The lady-seer smiled, stepping around and coming closer to her brother. "Either way, in some manner or another, you will continue to serve the Powers."

Angel's brow drew together with lack of understanding. "Either way?"

"You have a choice," she told him. "You may choose to remain in the city—fighting for the weak and the helpless. Or…" she began to move closer to him. "You can choose to accept your final gift."

Angel considered her, trying to make sense of her slightly cryptic words. "What is the final gift?"

A gentle bend lifted the corners of her mouth. "A new life." She came before him, unblinking eyes staring up into his.

"Choose to be given a new life," the brother seer explained.

"It will not be a perfect life," the sister cautioned. "You will still be aiding those in need, but with purpose and duty. The Supernatural will be left to others able to fight. You will receive a new calling. In this life, you will have love." At this, she smiled warmly. "And you will gain what you have lost."

Even though it went unsaid, Angel somehow knew exactly what the seer spoke of. His eyes softened. "Connor," he said.

A slow nod. "His childhood. You will be given every moment of it. This life will suit you in every sense." A final smile appeared, spreading. "A Man's life."

Those three words struck a poignant chord within Angel's chest. Even through the pleasure of it all, his overwhelmed and exultant expression faltered. His eyes looked between the two seers. "How will this be carried out?"

"Memories shall be wiped clean. Even yours, on this account," the man-seer relayed. "With new life, comes new beginning. A clean slate."

Angel's face gently fell, brow drawing together. He closed his eyes briefly. Opening them, he looked to the sister for guidance. "What about her?" he asked.

Both oracles cast a fleeting glance at Illyria. "Destruction." The man-seer merely shrugged.

Illyria's bold stance faltered and she glared between the two, and then looked to Angel. Her emotionless mask held a fracture to it. Angel was about to protest.

"Brother," the lady-seer scolded. Turning her attention to Angel, she gave a sad smile. "She cannot follow you." Her eyes drifted to Illyria. "She will be allowed to carry out her existence—as long as it is a peaceful and harmless one."

Illyria turned her gaze wordlessly on the stone floor and did not look away after that. Angel, too, remained quiet—gaze set against the same stone.

"You are without decision," the sister observed, tilting her head to the side. "Have you a need to be shown?" Angel's eyes flickered to her at her words. "Pre-knowledge of the future? I can show you but a glimpse."

"You can show me," Angel repeated.

"If you wish it, I can show you," she confirmed, then reminded with caution: "but only a glimpse."

Angel hesitated, torn with indecision. On one hand, the insight could be dull and without significance. On the other, it could show him earthly paradise—making his choice that much more difficult. He mulled silently over his options for a hanging moment.

Illyria remained silent at his side.

He had to know.

Angel looked to the oracle at last, determined. "Show me," he said.

**CHAPTER XV**

Solitude

Illyria waited less than patiently in the small-sized room of white stone. She was perfectly still on the exterior, but internally, she was at war. Several feet in front of and to her side was the brother oracle. He was equally stoic—only stood with his arms linked behind his back, watching Illyria occasionally with those unblinking orbs of his.

Illyria paid him no mind. She had more important things to dwell on. She'd watched as the female seer had stepped forward and touched her fingertips lightly against her companion's forehead. From each point they were connected, a radiant and pure light came to life—growing until the two were engulfed in it. It was too brilliant and extravagant to even give it the unworthy title of White. When the light had faded, Angel and the seer were gone.

And so… she'd waited.

Left behind.

She wasn't sure what she thought about that, but she was certain she didn't like it. It made her feel abandoned and cast aside and all those other bothersome emotions. She didn't wish to be inconvenienced any further by humanity's influence on her person. She'd been tainted by it enough—and she reviled the feel of it.

The notion of going on without direction or companionship left her feeling anxious and deserted. It made her chest ache in that way she was only just getting familiar with. She was unable to control it—it reigned over her every sense and thought, and she hated it. More importantly, as much as the very idea displeased her with maddening grace, she would miss him.

Illyria inwardly scoffed, but hugged herself tighter in silence.

_No, _she argued defiantly. _I'm upholding a stance of challenge and common defense._ Crossing her arms even tighter, she straightened her back, tipping her chin upwards—attempting to appear more imposing and indifferent than she felt.

She wanted him to return now.

Her large eyes glared ahead. They'd been gone for a good amount of time. The Old One wasn't certain how time turned in this realm, but she was certain she didn't care for waiting. She was quite adamant on the fact that she was repulsed more so now by the word than she had been before.

She withheld a sigh that was aching to be released, and, instead, sought to conjure up something to pass the time. She'd heard tales of counting sheep—which she thought absolutely ridiculous and pointless. Also, she wasn't certain she was matching the exercise with the correct dilemma.

Her jaw tightened. How was she to exist in this world when she knew so little of it? Loathed to admit it aloud—much less acknowledge the fact within herself—she needed to be taught. If she were to exist in solitude…

A premature loneliness swelled again in her cold heart.

What drivel. The great and prodigious Illyria—monarch of billions—needed _no one._ She was a single force that governed many, without mercy or care. She had lived seven lives at once and was the embodiment of true power. And now she was experiencing sentiments of a small child—pining after her only friend before he was even gone. Said companion was human, an even lower rank than the scanty vampire—of whom and what he'd been before. He'd declined severely in the chain of existence. He'd gone from 'muck' to 'food of muck'. And here she was: terrified of his growing potential absence in her life.

She was pulled from her thoughts as the room began to brighten. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the light expanded, filling the area with its radiance. Out of the brilliance appeared Angel and the seer—all the better and no worse for wear.

She observed closely his every move and paid careful attention to the expression he wore. To her disappointment, she could sense the warmth of his heart from where she stood. As he stepped forward slightly and away from the seer, a gentle look of content lifted his features. His smile graced even his eyes.

Illyria shifted, shuffling her feet slightly. "What did you see?" she asked half-heartedly, trying her very best to sound callous and failing outright miserably.

His face softened at her mention—he still appeared in a trance from it all. "Beautiful," was all he could think to say.

That simple explanation was her most elaborate heartbreak.

"Are you ready to exist within this new life?" the lady-seer asked, smiling and preparing to grant the Champion's final reward.

After a lengthy moment of silence, Angel finally faced her with a surprisingly troubled look. For a while, he was still and said nothing. As that time ended, his eyes filled with timid uncertainty. "Do you need my answer now?"

Both oracles were taken aback by the question, and exchanged perplexed glances with one another before finally turning their attention back on Angel. "You have not decided?" the man-seer questioned, incredulous.

"Is it possible to... could I have more time to think?" asked Angel, hesitant and faltering.

After overcoming the initial confusion, the lady-seer exchanged quiet words with her brother before turning back. She searched to find her voice. "Twenty-four hours, then," she allocated. "You will be given this time to achieve your decision. Should you choose to accept the Powers' offer, return to us within the timeline given."

Angel took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, nodding once in gratitude.

"Take your primordial vestige, then, and be gone," the man-seer waved off. "You squander precious time."

Illyria shot a glare in his general direction while the lady-seer fixed him with another look.

Angel stepped closer to Illyria as they were prepared to be sent away.

"It is your future, human…" he heard the lady-seer's pleasant voice. He turned to witness her most brilliant smile that shone only through her interminable gaze. "Do with it as you please."

The room began to brighten at her voice—so much so that Angel found himself squinting. The room began to fade around them, and just as it reached its utmost brilliance, he heard the soothsayer's parting words whisper softly in his ear before darkness began to settle and they were gone from the realm.

_Goodbye, Angel._

**CHAPTER XVI**

Forgiven

_**St. Michael's Chapel**_

The two warriors entered the church somewhat unconsciously and moved down the main aisle at a gradual speed. Both their gazes remained on the floorboards beneath their trekking feet, but Angel's often drifted ahead, deep in thought.

Human.

He was human.

Not again. This wasn't another trick or element of false hope, nor a whim.

But _finally_.

His reward had come, at last. He wasn't entirely sure how to react.

Illyria hadn't spoken to him since they'd arrived back. Which is why it came as a surprise when her level voice cut through the silence. "How are… things?" she almost mumbled with utter lack of direction. Small talk was not a common knack among beings of the Deeper Well.

Angel heaved a heavy sigh, but remained lighthearted, for the most part. "Well," he began, "I'm feeling perfectly starved at the moment. So… sometime in the next hour or so, I intend to pay a visit to that gas station we passed, take care of the demon inside with an always effective burst of violence, and then proceed to raid the shelves for sandwiches and junk food," he explained as they continued down the aisle.

"What is a junk food?" Illyria questioned, turning her head to look at him.

"Only one of the greatest bad-for-you things this world has invented. One word: Cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip." Angel smiled at the notion, but after a moment, he squirmed slightly. "Actually," he said, "that's more like five, but… well, it's one thing."

"This particular 'junk' fare interests me," Illyria agreed quietly. "I think I may investigate its purpose with you when the time comes."

But Angel was barely listening. In fact, he'd stopped moving altogether.

Illyria hesitated in her step, glancing back. While they had reached the end of the aisle, Angel had not followed her to the side door that would lead to the dwelling below. Instead, he'd stilled and now stood gazing at the large crucifix that graced the back wall above the simple alter.

Illyria looked between the two briefly, but allowed her stare to mostly remain on the former-vampire. "Angel?"

He didn't reply. Instead, he continued to gaze, transfixed. His head tilted in his study, lips parted slightly and eyes full of something Illyria had never witnessed in him before. After another moment, Angel took a steady step up onto the alter and began to make his way to the large Christian symbol. As he came to stand before it, his eyes looked up into the face of its occupant.

His stare drifted downwards to the simple aged oak of its base. Slowly, his arm lifted, and his hand extended forward, fingers reaching out. Hesitating, he felt his breath catch timidly. Finally, though, his fingertips brushed against the smooth surface of the hanging cross, just beneath Christ's feet.

His heart leapt poignantly when he did not have to recoil to keep his flesh from burning. His eyes glistened and his face softened, spirit lifting. Illyria had come up behind him and stood there, still, now. She watched the event closely.

A beautiful moment. Illyria could appreciate that.

While Angel felt the welcomed emotion clinging to his lashes, she eyed the figure on the cross curiously. After a time, she voiced her thoughts. "This man is worshipped more than I?"

"Yes," Angel said softly, and his eyes flickered away for a moment, breaking his reverie partially. "Does it offend you?"

She continued to observe, her head tilting in thought. "I suppose it should," she mused distantly. "But strangely, it does not." She turned away from the cross and fixed her gaze on her companion, whose back was to her. "If this man can cause you to feel such passion—to feel so wholly loved…" Illyria shook her head, looking back to the man on the cross. "He must be very great." She stepped closer so that she was at Angel's side, still looking upon the entity before them. "Far greater than I." After a time, she looked away and allowed her eyes to settle on him once more. A slight bend lifted her lips as she observed him. "Your face is leaking, human."

Angel turned to her, smiling slightly before breathing a laugh. He sighed, wiping at his eyes before he turned full around and lowered himself down. Taking a seat on the floor, he leaned against the wall for support.

Illyria watched him from where she stood. "You know…" she began with an odd smile, "it displeases me to say that I can no longer call you by those demeaning monikers I'd come to favor." Her head tilted. "I shall have to call you by your name."

He looked up at her, offering her a crooked grin. He then bowed his head, giving half a laugh. "Yeah," he agreed. "That'll be weird."

Illyria continued to stand before him. "I forgive you," she pointed out, hands on her hips and feet spread apart, as if the exoneration was entirely her idea and she was the bigger person for it. "For costing me that priceless weapon of the ancient era," she explained further, and then tipped her head back imperiously. "But only if you obtain me a new one in the future."

Angel only chuckled, not looking away from the floor.

After a moment, Illyria came to hover beside him before she lowered herself to sit at his side. She inhaled deeply, eyes staring across the many aisles and pews before them. Silently, she allowed her gaze to fall downcast. "Angel?"

"Hm?"

"We are."

"What?" Angel turned to look at her.

"Friends." The word hung tenderly in the air. After a time, she bowed her head, a little ashamed. "I would like to deem us so." She looked back over to him, her eyes uncertain and vulnerable. "Are we?" she asked hesitantly. "Friends?"

A warm smile spread on his handsome face. "Yes," he said after a time. "You're my friend, Illyria."

Her face brightened at his words, even though she'd tried to conceal it immediately after the fact. Still, her gladness died away and she smiled sadly. "Still…" she began, looking back across the large space. "I shall be alone, then."

He watched her for a moment before he turned away, eyes looking out with hers. A peaceful bend lifted his lips. "I'm not going back to the Oracles," he said.

She faced him immediately. "You are not?"

"No."

"You would decline their munificent offering. Why?"

"What I was shown… it was…" Angel shook his head in remembrance, "it was the life I've always wanted, to a point. But I can't abandon these people here. It's practically Hell on Earth out there, and they need a Champion. I know the darkness and what lurks within it. Maybe one day I'll have that life. A life without monsters and mystical what-not. But I can see it's not today."

After a time, Illyria gave a shake of her head. "Selfless imbecile," she said.

He chuckled, bringing up a knee and resting his arm atop it. "It's a habit," he confessed. "But there's more to it than just that. Other reasons."

"Explain, then."

"Oh, no," Angel intoned, wagging a finger in her general direction. "Not this time, Dory."

Illyria frowned, glowering like a stubborn child who didn't get their way. "I don't see a possible disparity your telling could make."

"No, you're just trying to learn everything at once. You seek knowledge of the world, and you seek in on your own terms. Life doesn't work that way, Illyria. You have to let it come to you. It'll mean more that way, trust me."

Illyria watched him through narrowed eyes, sifting through his words. Finally, she seemed to loosen in her inflexible fronts—both metaphorically and physically. "Perhaps… you may have a point," she ceded reluctantly. "Fine. But I am no less provoked."

Angel grinned at her, turning back to look out across the large area before them.

Illyria allowed her thoughts to travel, admiring a seam in her clothing and touching a hand to the suede jacket on her shoulders fondly. Devotion should never be kept secret, she reasoned. "The shell loved you once," she spoke into the stillness. She could feel his eyes glance at her. "Always," she amended. "But not in the same manner as in the beginning, when you met. She thought you a prince, in every way."

Angel listened quietly, gazing off. He recalled Fred's innocent adoration and fondness of himself. It had always made him smile. He loved her in return—but never in the way the young girl had hoped.

"You were her protector. Valiant and steadfast." Illyria tipped her chin back proudly. "You looked out for all your comrades, but never like you did for her. She was…" Illyria gave a slight shake of her head, a small lift to her lips, "simply Fred. And that was all you needed to know. She was Fred." Illyria leaned back more comfortably against the wall. "She was precious to everyone around her."

Angel smiled slightly in turn, eyes softening. "She had a quality," he agreed. "A sweetness." He chuckled then. "And that accent was cute as hell."

Illyria's smile broadened at his words, and she turned to study him. Soon, her eyes narrowed in her observation. "You know… many females, I've learned, have sought to give their hearts to you." Angel laughed, closing his eyes as his face scrunched a bit with endearing embarrassment. "I will confess," Illyria went on, overlooking him with careful scrutiny, "your facial structure is pleasant and appealing. And your frame is equally notable. Impressive, for a vampire or human. Taking both muscular definition and the width of your shoulders into consideration. I understand their interest."

Angel's expression had changed little, and he put a hand to his forehead, eyes closed in amusement. His 'widthy' shoulders shook briefly with mirth. "Thanks."

"You're more than welcome," Illyria granted, looking back ahead. "Simply an observation I thought to share."

Again, the two comrades sat in silence—enjoying the quiet and the reassuring company of the other. Illyria thought back on his words, and soon, her face fell, and she hung her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice soft and subdued.

Angel glanced at her. "For what?"

"I have never openly expressed grief over my actions—unknowing though they were. What I did…" she trailed off, gaze lowered and focused on her small hands. "What I did to her. To Fred. My existence destroyed who all held dear." Angel allowed her to speak her mind, his face calm. Illyria took a deep breath, raising her eyes to admire the lovely and intricate workings of the ceiling that hung high overhead. "I am glad Wesley abolished the Qua Hassan. He deserved a far worse demise than what he suffered." She bowed her head again. "And I suppose… so do I."

"Hey," Angel broke in softly, touching her shoulder gently with his. He waited until she'd look at him, but she never did, so he went on. "You've never apologized. And in return, no one's ever been given the chance to…"

"To what?" she looked at him, eyes cheerless.

"You said it yourself," He began, giving a shake of his head. "You didn't know. You couldn't have. You were just a being, trying to survive." His eyes rested on hers, encouraging. The moment held for a time. Then, he told her, "I forgive you."

Something within her melted. It was evident through her icy stare as her eyes began to shine with emotion. Relief. Pure relief and comfort were finally gained. She meant to speak, but closed her mouth looked away, sniffing. "We should divert to another topic," she said quickly. "Before my face begins that grieving ritual again."

Angel smiled, turning back ahead. "Good idea," he approved, getting comfortable again. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You know…" he began thoughtfully. "Even if… say I did choose to go back—get the Brady Bunch or whatever slapped on me… you wouldn't necessarily be alone. I mean… I was brought back once. And I know people who are really good at that raising of old friends and foes mojo." He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

Her brow was knit together in concentration, putting together what he divulged. "You mean to say… we could…"

"All I'm saying is—we got a big fight ahead of us. It'd be better if it wasn't two against the whole city. Granted, we're pretty strong, but…" Angel shrugged.

Illyria dwelled over the idea, a frown on her lips as she sat in deep thought. Angel was about to continue when she broke the quiet. "Not Wesley." He gave her an odd look, brow drawn in confusion. Illyria opened her mouth to speak, but it took some time before words began to form and come out. "He is…" she felt her eyes stinging yet again—without her permission. "He is with Fred," she said finally, voice soft with care. Her gaze stayed locked with Angel's. "I could not take him from her…" her voice caught here, "now that they are finally together."

Angel's eyes softened at her words, and a warm smile spread on his face. "Selfless," he accused finally.

After that, they sat in silence, both beneath the vast crucifix that seemed to reach out unto the world around it.

It was Illyria who finally broke the comforting quiet. "But… Spike…" she began.

"Huh," Angel grunted. "I'm surprised he hasn't shown up already," he groused comically. "Guy's like some kind of… I don't know—mutant cockroach." A slow smile began to spread on Illyria's face as he continued. "Must've run out of his forty-seventh life or something. I suppose we could give him a hand."

Illyria's steady gaze flashed rampantly, filled with running thoughts. "I suppose we should assist, yes," she agreed, then tilted her head in that odd manner she'd grown accustomed to. "You really are an amusing creature. I wonder, sometimes, why you wasted your moments in the shadows. In my time, I would have dressed you in the skin of a Jester and you would entertain my officials and I in the Great Temple, Vallahanesh."

Angel snorted. "I think you mean the _outfit_ of a Jester."

"No," Illyria shook her head, looking about in confusion. "No, I meant exactly his flesh."

Angel fixed her with a subtle horrified look of revulsion. "Oh, the good ol' days."

"Yes," Illyria agreed. "Still," she went on, relaxing back further, feeling comfortable. "There is a design set out before us. We each will play our role in it. There is more ahead than just mêlées and glorious battles of insensate odds. Though, I would not object if only violence lay ahead," she amended, just to set the record straight. Angel grinned at her side, still looking out. "Even though you chose to go without your simple life, you are still, now, a man. Your former restrictions have been vanquished. You have been bestowed a future. The augur pledged this."

"Mm." Angel continued to gaze off, face pensive and thoughtful.

"You spoke of deeper motives as to why you declined the great reward offered to you. Do you even know them? You have your entire existence before you." Illyria turned to study him, eyes thoughtful. "What will you do now?" she asked softly, curious where his journey would take them.

A growing quiet filled the air, settling around the two comrades.

Angel, former ensouled vampire extraordinaire—now able to live out in peace, and as a person, stared ahead. Gradually, his eyes took on a hopeful sort of warmth, glimmering with visions of promising future. His newly rejuvenated heart fluttered, and a smile like the sun slowly began to spread across his lips.

**CHAPTER XVII**

Heartcry – together

_**Outskirts of Sunnydale**_

Twice.

She'd washed that shirt twice.

Her expression unchanging from the hollow, empty mask she wore, Buffy tossed the old shirt once again into the laundry. Though her expression did well to hide her emotions, her eyes displayed them like an open book. They were weary pools of sadness—only barely rimmed in mournful scarlet.

She didn't remember the process of her routine; she'd gone through it in a sort of automatic pilot. Her hands and fingers carried on without her thoughts, looking to keep occupied. Folding the final pair of jeans and a sweater, she remained still, leaning her slight weight against the washer. Her eyes gazed down at the unremarkable article of clothing, fingers smoothing over the soft fabric.

She felt the brimming of warmth kiss her lashes, and didn't attempt to blink it away. It wouldn't have made a difference. Nothing seemed to make a difference, lately.

She closed her eyes, reaching into her pocket to retrieve what she'd since placed there. She hated keeping it in such an undeserving sanctuary as that, but she'd seen no alternative. She'd wanted to be close to it.

Withdrawing her hand, her fingers now held before her eyes the simple yet utterly beautiful ring. The encompassing hands, the crown, and the perfect little heart reflected their silver luster in her mirrored gaze.

Friendship. Loyalty. And love.

Its loveliness touched her spirit with promise. She sniffed, wiping away the tears on her face before she slipped the ring gently on her finger. From this day forward, she made it a promise in return—she would never remove it. Letting go wasn't an option. Too long had she been living her life, trying to forget him. Trying to move on. The harder she tried, and the harder her companions pressed for her to do so, the worse it stung. She was tired of being strong.

She placed her other hand over the ringed one gently, feeling its soothing coolness. The ache deep in her chest didn't lessen, though. She knew it in her heart that she couldn't survive without him.

She saw no future for herself, now.

All that flashed within her mind's eye was laundry, sobbing sessions in her room against a pillow, and the occasional bite to eat to keep up some semblance of appearance. Her stare fell downcast when she heard footsteps approaching behind her.

He stood for a time in silence before speaking. "You know, Dawn is rather delighted you're taking over her chores," Giles tried to sound cheerful, but wound up sounding just as bleak and half-hearted as he felt.

Buffy got back to folding, getting a little sloppy in her distracted sense of being. "Yeah," was all she said, muttering. Giles had strived just to hear the utterance.

They remained there for a time, embracing the silence before Giles spoke again. "Buffy, I don't want to preach at you. And I don't plan to." He waiting for her to acknowledge him, but she never did. Sighing, he went on. "I just wanted to know if there was anything we could do… that might help you to feel better."

Frustrated, Buffy seized the folded laundry and tossed it back into the dryer, unthinking. "I'll never be _better_."

Giles' face fell sadly, and he put his hands in his pockets, looking around the room for a time. Returning his attention back to the original slayer that stood before him, he showed her great sympathy. "I think that perhaps, maybe you'd like a bite to eat. Venture outdoors. Your friends are all planning to maybe take a trip to town. They're getting pizza, I believe. Wouldn't you like to join them?"

Buffy continued to repress, gaze steeled against the surface of the appliance. "No," she replied softly, "thank you."

Giles winced, closing his eyes. "Buffy, I just wish you'd allow us to help you. You don't have to be alone. You need—"

"What I need—" Buffy began emotionally, whirling around, "—is gone." There were tears in her eyes.

Giles' features softened at her young, heartbreaking expression. He began to apologize when they both heard the rapid footfalls of someone fast approaching. Their attention was snared as Willow burst into the room, stumbling and panting.

"Buffy!" she exclaimed, and apparently that's what it was going to be left at, for she spoke not another word. She only stared wide-eyed at the slayer, waiting for her to initiate the upcoming conversation with the obvious question.

"What is it, Will?" the girl in question asked quietly.

"I…" the young witch took a deep breath, trying to summon her voice. She appeared as if she'd drank an entire beaker full of pure coffee. "I think—maybe you should—Buffy, you need to come outside," the small redhead stammered, insistent and animated nonetheless. Her eyes were wide with revelation.

Buffy sighed, going back to the laundry. "I'm sorry, Willow. I really don't feel like going out."

"B-but—" Willow became frantic, trying to obscure her friend's concentration. "Believe me, you really should—"

"Willow," Buffy was upset now, weary with her loving friend's strange antics. "Please, I—"

"Buffy, go outside."

Giles' distracted voice cut through the air, firm and leaving very little room for objection. Buffy spun to face him, a little defiant and exasperated, when she saw the look on his face. He wasn't looking at her. His gaze was set, unmoving and stunned, past the clear friendly window before them, and into the outside world. Slowly, his hands pulled out of his pockets as he took one gradual step closer to the window.

Buffy began to question their evident disbelief and awe as she picked up the laundry basket, turning to see for herself what it was they were going on about.

The basket slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor at her feet, laundry spilling out in a wide arc.

--------------------

Slowly, her feet carried her forward, past the threshold of the home's quaint entrance, and into the sun. Her brow held a tentative furrow, and her lips parted with lack of understanding. The gentle breeze lifted a few errant strands of hair and brushed them across her cheeks lovingly.

Her following steps were careful, and lead her a small ways down the incline and onto the sidewalk. Here, she stilled, and stared.

Xander, Faith, and Dawn stood at the end of the short drive. With them was an odd-looking woman who closely resembled a walking blueberry popsicle with a leather wrapper. She appeared somewhat setback and observed more than she conversed.

But that was not who Buffy was staring so closely at.

She'd always thought his hair a stark black—dark as the night itself. But in the day, bathed in the light, it seemed more golden. She took another hesitant step forward, and caught her breath as he suddenly faced her—sensing her presence. It was a common bond. A shared gift. Even if she could never see him directly, she could always feel him.

His eyes were equally different, somehow. Not a pool of obsidian with limitless depths and untold secrets. Again, she found them more golden—eager, and full of life.

She heard Willow and Giles come up behind her, but paid them little mind. If they would have spoken, she wouldn't have replied. She'd have been unable to hear them—too distracted by the sight of him. A perfect vision.

A miracle.

She couldn't form a single thought. Too thunderstruck by the entire unfolding chain of events, she continued and remained speechless. Seeing him there, bathed in light… she felt new tears form with the beauty of it. He'd been darkly handsome and attractive before, but now… Her heart fluttered, lifting with warmth. Now, he shone like some sort of angelic deity, glowing with ethereal splendor.

Bewilderment ravaged her.

What did this mean?

But then, under the brilliant kiss of light, his eyes softened with care and utter devotion. And a smile like the sun spread across his face.

She gasped, a sob escaping her lips before her hand flew to her mouth. Without so much as another thought, a beaming smile lit up her own features, and she left her position eagerly behind.

She ran to him. She couldn't reach him fast enough. She laughed as she did so, rushing past any who came before him. He'd taken several strides forward to meet her the rest of the way.

Buffy Summers exposed the biggest smile yet that revealed all her teeth as she reached what she had so deeply longed for and what Fate had dared to deny her. She leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck as he caught her in his arms.

Their lips met in a kiss so divine, it shone brighter than any star and could very easily melt the very blackest heart.

Her angel.

His words from long ago echoed in her memories. _You still my girl?_

She'd smiled.

_Always._

**CHAPTER XVIII**

rebellion

They sat in silence, overwhelmed by the comforting presence of the other. They faced, hand in hand, drinking in the sight—two joined souls, divided for too long. Together again.

A smile rose on her face, glimmering much like her gaze that had yet to pull away. "I feel like I should say something," she started, "but I wouldn't know where to begin."

His gaze warmed in return, his fingers intertwining gently with her own in comfort. "This is good," he smiled. "Just this."

A soft laugh whispered past her lips. "Yes," she had to agree. Then her face took on a funny look. "Although I'm feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, for some reason."

He chuckled with her, a knowing look in his eye. "It'll pass," he assured her.

She sniffed, then, blinking away emotion. "It all seems too good to be true," she confessed, tightening her hold on his hand tenderly. "I'm afraid that… if I let you go…"

Angel pulled her closer so that she came to sit at his side, relaxing against him and laying her head on his shoulder, her eyes looking up into his. He gave her a reassuring smile. "I have it on good authority that this is the real deal. You don't have to worry."

She nestled closer to him, comforted and pleased by his words. "Good." A comical frown tugged down at the corners of her mouth, then. "Cause I've said it before: no one messes with my boyfriend."

He laughed appreciatively, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close. Again, they basked in the quiet and the solace of the other's company. It was a time before Buffy's voice broke through. "Angel?"

"Hmm?" He'd come to rest his cheek against the softness of her hair.

"You never did tell me," she began, "what they showed you. The life you were offered. What was it?" she asked curiously.

"Well," he began, giving a slight shrug of his opposite shoulder. "It doesn't really matter."

Buffy smiled, reassuring him, and looked up at him. "You can tell me."

Angel allowed a partial grin. "It was close to the life I had before—minus all the grief and complications." This, he'd relayed with sarcastic appreciation. "I had a family much like the old team. I was saving people, still."

A sneaky smirk had formed on her face. "What were you, a cop?"

"Hardly," he said, looking down at her with an air of comic insult. The smile spread wider. "FBI."

"Mm." Buffy's eyebrows rose approvingly. Her gaze drifted elsewhere. "A life to be proud of, I'm sure. Purpose and meaningful." She'd said this sincerely, then looked back to study him closely, caringly. "What made you turn it down? You said it was perfect."

He turned away, eyes set against the floor. He gave a slow half-shake, half-nod of his head, sighing. "Almost." His voice seemed distant.

Buffy smiled knowingly, allowing his utterance settle in the air before continuing. "Let me guess—you know too much. This life you led before—you know what goes bump in the night, and you know how to help people this way." She touched his hand. "Not so different than how I felt after losing my powers that one time, I suppose."

He appeared to hesitate before he shook his head, closing his eyes. He turned to look at her meaningfully. "You weren't a part of it," he said.

Her smile faded at the weight of his words.

"A life without you, Buffy…" he shook his head again, eyes earnest and loving, "is no life I'd want."

When he watched the tears form in her eyes, he felt badly—not meaning to instigate such an effect. But when she then leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss on his lips and breathed a laugh against them, he knew she wasn't upset.

She pulled away, hugging him tightly, and he held her in return.

The reunion had been touching. He had forgotten just how much he'd missed them all. He'd received a warm embrace from Willow and Dawn, and an ecstatic one from Faith—who had given him a hard time about 'getting majorly whooped' by a 'big-ass gecko with wings'. They'd exchanged a cheerful laugh. Even Xander had thrown a comradely arm around him and gave him a few good thumps on the chest—a smile on his face. A handshake with Giles and an exchanged look had erased any former distrust. Even Illyria seemed to enjoy the exchange—earning many stares and questions on the side.

Tears had been shed. Everything was perfect now. The family was together again.

The young witch had wept openly—happy—and even Faith, who swore she was just allergic to mushy, girly moments, had gotten a little misty about the eyes.

Angel smiled freely in remembrance.

"Still," he began, smoothing his fingers over her hair. "Los Angeles is a cesspool. Like fifty-seven hell-mouths at once. It could use some champions."

Buffy grinned against him. "We've had some luck against ancient evil before. You think we could do some good?"

Angel smiled in agreement, staring off. "I think we could."

"Joined forces. I like it," she agreed. "I've got the Scoobies and the trusty slayer brigade. And you've got… Lady Blue Dominatrix, or whatever she is."

Angel laughed approvingly. "Something like that. And the way Xander was looking at her… I think he's crushing, to be honest."

"Well, he's always had a thing for ancient demonesses. Speaking of which," Buffy sat up so she could look at him. "Giles had said your little blue shadow's reputation is nothing to look past." Her face turned a little serious. "She's supposed to be one of the most corrupted, evil things to ever 'grace' this dimension. And a few others." She paused here, contemplating. "She's conquered planets."

A distant expression spread on his face, and he stared off, nodding once with a lopsided smile on his face. "She turned out all right."

The slayer's face softened. "She's your friend?"

"She saved my life. And she's more than proved herself." He finally looked at her, honest and assuring. "Yes."

Buffy smiled, nodding. "Then she's mine, too. I trust you."

His own spread wider, his eyes appreciative. "Thank you." She welcomed him through her gaze. "And… I've got someone else stationed there. I think he could be of some help." There was a twinkle in his eye.

Her brow furrowed. "Would I know him?"

He smiled. "You should," he said, nodding. "He's pretty strong. And a good fighter—like his Dad."

Recognition and appreciation dawned in her facial expression. "He'll make the team," she agreed, before her look turned thoughtful. "I have something of yours," she said, getting to her feet. "And, considering your lack of favored attire, I think you'd like it back." She looked at him over her shoulder as she moved a way, giving him a knowing look.

His brow furrowed, surprised. "What's that?"

She'd relocated herself to the other end of the room, pulling open a small closet and disappearing into it. She'd salvaged some of her things before Sunnydale had collapsed into itself. Angel waited patiently, though he was growing more curious by the moment—wondering what she could possibly be referring to. When she appeared again, he was unable to keep the grin of remembrance from his face.

She held up a man's black leather coat, a smile on her face. "I was… really cold one night," she began lamely, spinning a tale they both knew. "Some really good-looking guy was nice enough to lend me his coat."

Angel tried to force down the twitching at his lips. "He never asked for it back?"

"No, can you believe it?" Unable to suppress it any longer, her smile spread to show most of her teeth as she handed it to him. "And, for the record, Cryptic Wiseman… I think it looks better on _you_."

He chuckled, taking it from her and running his hand over its surface. It was like being reunited with a favorite car. Speaking of which, he dearly missed his. Ah, well.

However, as she'd handed it to him, he noticed the familiar band of silver wrapped lovingly around her finger, and it warmed his heart.

"You know," he began, clearing his throat. He set aside his returned coat and made room for her to sit next to him. She took up the invitation and got comfortable at his side, waiting for him to continue. "While we're there, I was thinking. There's this…" he trailed off, then turned to meet her stare, taking her hand in his, "beautiful little church," he said finally, a smile insufficiently hidden within his features. "It… hasn't been put to good use for some time," he said.

Realization was slowly dawning on her face, and the more she came to understand his words, the more her smile widened. So much so, that her eyes began to crinkle at the sides in an expression he found quite adorable.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat again and nodding. He gave a shrug. "I was just thinking."

"Right," she agreed, mirroring his shrug. "If we have time."

"Right."

Even though they played it off well, the deeper meaning and sincerity of the notion was altogether real. Both champions felt a building anticipation in their hearts at the idea, stomachs fluttering and tingling.

They both knew better than their lighthearted exchange. And they each knew of the other's knowledge towards the proposal.

The two champions shared a meaningful, passionate look.

It would happen. And not soon enough.

But, for the moment, there were other matters at hand. They had major plans and strategies to carry out and devise.

"So," Buffy began, squeezing his hand in mutual preparation and comfort. "Evil's taken over and set up shop in your town. And we're the rising challenger?"

A grin cracked the corner of his mouth. "I've waged a few wars in my day. Should be a walk in the park."

Buffy took in his words, allowing them to sink in before she nodded, a smile on her lips. "An angel rebellion," she almost breathed, rather awed by the picture the idea painted in her mind. "I seem to remember talks about such a thing." She faced him then with a crooked grin. "You know what happened last time the universe seen one of those, don't you?"

Angel grinned in return. "I seem to recall the story. However…" he said, "we won't be unleashing Hell against any Thrones." Here, he paused for effect, earning an eager grin from the woman at his side. "This time, we're with the Throne. We'll be sending Evil back where it came from. Where it belongs."

Buffy's eyes lit up with admiration of her heroic prince and meaning of their cause. Her smile grew as he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Together?"

"Together." He smiled.

Together at last, and for always.

**CHAPTER XIX**

Iliad to illyria

_Our mission is set. In two days—no more, possibly less—we eight shall set forth as one to the land of Los Angeles. Our leader, Angel, and his newly reunited enthusiast, Buffy Summers, have established possible reinforcements. While I know little of the brigade of warriors the original Slayer commands, I have witnessed them train. Their skills impress me. There is great potential in all of them. All of us. _

_Angel's support tends to incline towards erratic, single forces. I know very little of them as well, except for the boy whom I've encountered once before. _

_While my friend had, at the time, endeavored to veil the identity of his son, I had known all along. But I'd remained unspoken about the matter when first confronted by it. What was most curious was the younger one's blatant and rather intriguing attraction of myself. I have detected similar behavior in the human, whose name, I've learned, is Xander._

_I can only assume the two viable specimens of the male gender will hold a combative and alpha mêlée in my honor. The event would most certainly amuse me and provide much desired exploratory and clinical findings. The limit of what I could learn from such an experience is just exactly infinite._

_Such recreation, however, shall have to delay itself for a more appropriate time. The idea—the very concept of a rebellion, appeals to my more conquering temperament. Also, it holds a purpose within me, for which I cannot explain. When I ruled as god-king, I feared nothing—never did I flinch. But now… now, there is an apprehension in me that I find… bizarrely treasured. _

_When I greeted this world, it shuddered at my greatness and bowed to my every wish. After sealed away, and upon my return, that same, quivering world was not as I had left it. Now, beings fought for what they believed was just. They proclaimed a stand against their captors and tyrannous rulers. They were willing to perish because of their faith, and for their cause. We Old Ones: rulers, invaders, despots, tormenters, persecutors… we are no longer needed or favored in this new world. Because of our power, we are still greatly feared, but that only makes the inferior's stand all the more worthy. I can only be privileged to be a part of that now. Now, I serve. And will serve the one known as Angel—a unique being, strong and rife with honor—until my death comes. And if it is his that precedes mine, I shall honor his name and continue to wage war against the Iniquitous. For as long as They crawl, I shall do well to end them—without mercy and without a single flinch—at his side, and at the side of his comrades. _

_'And be __**nothing**__', I'd begged him, entirely lost and feeling vast grief over the loss of my former prominence and grace. _

_'And be what you __**are**__,' he'd urged me then, ardent with utter will and fervor, 'fighting to hold on to what you were… it's destroying you.' _

_Angel. I'd blamed him, then—despised him, even. I'd wished a thousand deaths and eons of torment and suffering upon him in that single moment. But now, I could only thank him. _

_Illyria, god-king of the Primordium… was dead. _

_That infernal being would remain sealed away forever in that suffocating sarcophagus, to rot. No longer would it walk worlds and dimensions as it pleased. _

_**She**__ walked only one world now. _

_A revelation from Fred's memory replayed itself in my mind over and over and over again, filling my chest with growing warmth. _

_'I walk with heroes.' _

Illyria smiled, tipping her chin back proudly; her blue eyes sparking with creed. Wesley would be proud of her. She was with the Angels, now. They would declare war against the Evil Ones.

_All his enemies believe he'd perished under the weight of their claws. _Illyria smirked. _I can hardly wait to behold the expression on their mewing faces. _

A final stand for righteousness and honor.

A Rebellion of Justice.

**TBC**


	21. PIC, SONG, & TRAILER

**Note: **Here's all the other work I've created and was influenced by. As I've stated in the installment previous this one, please don't post my trailer and pic everywhere. The trailer will remain on Youtube. I'll keep it up always. You're able to download it from there. (if you don't know how, I'll be happy to explain ;-D) I'd like my pic to remain simply on my photobucket and only there.

Again, if you want to save the trailer and the pic to your computer, that's absolutely fine with me. I just ask that you don't spread it everywhere, that's all. I ask that it remain locked in my photobucket, or your hard drives. No more, possibly less, if you choose, lol.

Thank you! XXOO

(just remove the spaces when copying and pasting the links)

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**Cover I photoshopped for this story/fic. "Angel: Rise of the Fallen"**

www . i89 . photobucket . com / albums / k207 / Shadow71689 / afterthefall2 . jpg

(btw, in the bottom right hand corner of the cover, I incorporated the upcoming comic for Angel Season 6. That particular clipping is from a special front for the comic. Only so many are going out like that. The comic comes out Nov. 28, I believe. You can get it on amazon, but I got it for like $5, I just can't remember where. I preordered it, lol. I hope it comes in the mail soon!)

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**Theme song for this fic:**

"Bring on the Wonder" -by Susan Enan

Listen here:  
www . myspace . com / susanenan

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**AND... the much anticipated (for some) TRAILER for "Angel: Rebellion"  
That is to say -- what comes after this fic**

www . youtube . com / watch ? v (equal sign) TTpRoZ0jce4

if this doesn't work, just search "angel rebellion". my username over there is Shadow71689.

ENJOY!


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